kagablog

The first SMS came in the middle of a heated argument I was having with my friends. In seems in this day and age you can set the tone for an evening by bringing up three topics. The first, Zimbabwe. The second, Israel. The third, the United States of America. We were tackling the first at a coffee shop in Rosebank at 12a.m. We had just watched THE HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG, Vadim Perelman’s brilliant film that in a strange way was linked to our heated conversation about Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe. One of the themes in THE HOUSE OF SAND AND FOG is a dispute of ownership of a piece of property. No conversation about Zim is not complete without referencing the land issue. In between shouting, hot chocolate and being accused of not listening, my phone beeped. ** The message simply said BRENDA FASSIE IS DEAD.

This was on the 2nd of May. The newspaper screamed ITS ALL OVER FOR BRENDA. Your picture was there Bongani. You looked lost. You looked confused. You were looking like any child would look not knowing the future of their parents. Turns out that it would be a week before Brenda took her show to the field of the Lord and that the SMS was premature. Through all the denials, the visits, the headlines, the prayers I remembered that picture of you Bongani. Each day greeted us with the new images, new faces, new revelations but that picture stuck in my mind. The one with you and the plastic coke bottle.

The second SMS came in Cape Town. Ironic-MOTHERS DAY. I was about to board the plane back to Johannesburg. No arguments about Zim, just the sound of the lady announcing which gate to board. My phone beeps. I show the lady my boarding pass. I check the message. I take a deep breath. I switch off my phone. And the ritual replays itself.

The news of someone’s passing is always cause for reflection. Some people say you reflect on your life. Others call everyone they know and express their love. I simply, if I knew the person I would always go back to the last time I saw them. I don’t pretend to have known your mother well. I can’t even say we were acquaintances. We were in the same industry yes but I knew her from a distance like most of her fans. We met three times and it’s not like we sat down and had a chat. I never had the privilege to direct her, to act opposite her or even to be in the studio as she laced the tracks. She was born ten years before me in 1964. She got her kick start in 1979 when I was five years old. When in 1983 she scored a hit with ‘Weekend Special’ I was surprised that my Dad could cook! My mother had traveled to Barbados with my sister and my Dad was left to baby sit us. I thought we would starve! Needless to say he was great. When she released ‘Memeza’, I had just broken into the industry. Your mother lived in my time and I am proud.

The night your mother died, a friend of mine, Nomsa Nene (also in the entertainment industry) was fighting for her life in a hospital in Johannesburg after having been in a terrible car accident. I visit Nomsa. The first TV show I acted in was with Nomsa. At the hospital I spend time with her husband Roberto and the producers who gave me my first break Rob and Lena Davies. They crack jokes like ‘I am impossible to get hold of now that I am on Generations’. I laugh. Good to be with family. We can’t see Nomsa. Only family is allowed to see her. The doctor’s say Nomsa is stable. I call David Newton(who I hadn’t spoken to in a while). He acted in that same show with Nomsa. I guess I am reaching out to people. David and I agree to do dinner soon. The other week I watched Nomsa performance in Les Blair’s JUMP THE GUN. I thought, I must tell Nomsa I saw that film again. Now, I stand in the Trauma Unit, the weight of your mother’s death over me and I am praying for my friend, Nomsa. It isn’t the year of the black celebrity. DJ Khabzela of YFM, Tebogo Madingoane of the group Mafikizolo and now Brenda.

The plane touches down in Johannesburg. I click my phone on. It beeps. Another SMS. A friend from London-”We have just heard the sad news. How’s the mood in SA?” I reply simply “People are down”. A friend from Namibia is shocked. Your mother touched the world.

I was in awe of your mother Bongani. Who wasn’t? You don’t know me but I write to you as someone who has also lost a mother. When my mother died all I wanted to do was sleep. A sudden heaviness overcame me and it only be addressed in sleep. I asked a friend of mine who also lost his mother what happened to him and he said he wanted to sleep. You are probably tired. But you probably can’t sleep. Too many people. So many things are expected of you. Because fortunately for you my young brother you are the son of a living legend. You were born into the spotlight. You were on TV at an age when most children were running around in the sandpit. I write to you as someone who has had to negotiate his way in the limelight. As I cried in the hospital for my mother, some security guard asked for my autograph. I write to you because I can separate the fame from the private. When I realized my father was famous, I was still able to separate him from the fame. The same way I separate Joe from Phat Joe, or Hakeem from The Fresca Guy. I would encourage you, once you have found your feet again because, my young brother, you must let time heal you. Everyone will have pearls of wisdom for you on how to deal with your mother’s death. As someone who is walking that road, the road to recovery is hard. Some days better than others. Little things trigger tears and you might find that your tank is on empty. A waiter taking his time to bring the bill might piss you off. You might think you are over your mother’s death in two years time or even ten years. However long it takes, let time heal you. And when you are healed, young blood I would encourage you to write a book about your relationship with your mother. Let the world see her through your eyes. If you read Ken Wiwa’s brilliant book IN THE SHADOW OF A SAINT (which deals with his relationship with his father) you will get an idea of the kind of book I feel the world will be ready to read.

I am sure tonight when you sleep you miss your mother. You mourn YOUR MOTHER, while the nation cries for BRENDA. The nation mourns for the ‘Madonna of the townships’, the Queen of Pop. You cry for your mother. The woman who raised you. We may remember lines from her songs but you have the whole soundtrack to her life. You know melodies we can only envy. You know tunes that made you and molded you. The rest of us have to be content with her CD’s.

And in this time of chaos my brother before she is laid to rest, I felt the need to write to you.

No one knows what it means to lose a parent until you have lost one. As you reach up for air I say that my prayers are with you. Your mother has been immortalized forever. While we will hear her music forever, you will hear her voice. A voice we weren’t privy to. You might feel she wouldn’t talk to you again but let me reassure you young brother, she will. She will sing you to sleep, she will show up unexpectedly. When they say life is unfair, I understand. She can talk to you but you can’t talk to her. Then again we are defining ‘talk’ in the physical sense. You will talk to her.

And when the noise has settled, the newspapers with their lights are gone. The mourners are gone and you lay in your bed to sleep, know that I think of you Bongani. I know you don’t me and we have never met but even in our six degrees of separation, we are bond together because tonight your mother sings for my mother.

this article first appeared on coffeebeans.co.za