By Kabelo Mollo
They say, the quicker time goes by, the older you’re getting. It has been a year since my old man passed in a Bloemfontein hospital, and it’s flown by. I have been through the various stages of grief and as I was told would be the case, continue to try figure things out in the great beyond without my compass. My former rector described it as “the lifelong journey towards overcoming grief”. He was a wise old man indeed, Mr Wylde.
Adjusting to the presence of JK II was easier than adjusting to the loss of JK original. I’ve heard on multiple occasions that time heals all wounds. Well, I know now that statement is hogwash. I know this wound will never heal, what will simply happen is I will learn to live with it. I’m not sure when that will be but it doesn’t look like it’s on the horizon. Indeed, grief has no time table.
As a family we decided that we were going to celebrate a life well lived which was actually him and my mother’s wish. They both insist their lives must be celebrated. And to be fair, they were together 55 years, married for 49 and only death could tear part them. Why wouldn’t we celebrate such?
The 7th of May is my father’s birthday and while I was really not looking forward to that date this year my sister very wisely decided to have her wedding on that day. It was a joyous occasion permeated by love and jubilation all round. It was wonderful to have our family all together celebrating the day and by extension my old man. We had a quiet toast as just a nuclear family the following day and as ever we reflected on the many brilliant memories our father left us. Him and my mother always encouraged us to be tight knit.
They insisted on family holidays being spent together and although my dad was the most sociable of all of us, over the festive period he would devote all his time to family, telling his regular drinking buddies “ke tla le bona ka bo li 2”. When my nieces were younger and would come for holidays he’d make sure they had a date at the Spur. It was their ritual. Once I tagged along with them and my dad made a whole song and dance about “people crashing our date”. He was a classic character.
When I was about 17 and very eager to learn how to drive so that I could get a car the following year like my peers, he asked, oh, and then you get a car when you’re 18? To which I responded in the affirmative and then he quipped “but your bank manager doesn’t know you” and he chuckled. I tried to make the point that he didn’t need to as my father would be purchasing the car cash, he cackled from the belly as he assured me that even if he had a moment of madness and considered It, my mother would not be as forgiving. There was really never a dull moment with that timer.
We used to have regular lunch dates when I was in country to visit them. He would always lament that I refused to share a drink with him at the famed Sparrows bar. The Sparrows thing was a running joke in our family for as long as I can remember. We could never make sense how such esteemed and imminent personalities could drink at a petrol station. My dad would laugh and say their filling themselves up while they fill up the cars.
More recently when we moved to our new house he remarked in his most diplomatic fashion that I shouldn’t continue with my morning jogs here. When I enquired why, he said “ka motseng ka moo? Ai khona!” I laughed until I cried. And on his part he just kept saying “ai khona”. It was hilarious! It was his comedic timing more than anything. I suppose many years in the diplomatic service had taught him to do that. Disarm your adversary with charm and a quick wit. When he told stories he would pepper them with a loud bellowing laugh and cheeky grin. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him. A raconteur of note.
He tells a great story of being at Olaf Palmes funeral. While he was still fairly young at the time, he had been in the foreign service for a while and had self-actualized. After the formalities he and some comrades from the anti-apartheid struggle gathered to enjoy some refreshment. One of them was an up and coming leader in the movement called Thabo Mbeki. A waiter had been summoned and duly brought them some wine. When ntate Joe tasted the wine he quickly realised it was corked and sent it away. Mbeki having seen this snapped, “Joe stop showing off, we’re f*cking thirsty”. It was so funny hearing him use expletives because other than that his language was always utterly pristine. Anyhow you’ll be delighted to note they eventually got their refreshments and had a long afternoon discussing the intricacies of foreign service and struggle politics and everything in between.
The memories keep coming and they’re helpful in not letting one get too down. Indeed, his was a life well lived. While the wound is far from healed we take solace in the legacy he’s left behind. 1 year down, many to go.
I love you dad.
