From time to time, with each installment of those sharing oxygen with me turning their backs on this world. I think about heavy losses incurred by families of nations.
My mind, rewinds to the endearing episodic of a life that once was, and, will forever be in our mind, of both young and old, (men and women) who once travelled, trampled, traversed and treaded upon earth mother, as if they were immortal being.
Whether these individuals were known or unknown to me. Its inconsequential. In my case, whenever news of anybody's demise reaches me.
A child in me weeps uncontrollable. With part of him dying and joining a departed soul on their last journey under the gaze of the sun. Such is life!
In short, the pain of losing a loved one, is a pain which jolt mixed emotion in my system. Because, pain of dealing with grief of one dearest, in any family, is pain of loss felt by the entire family of humanity within my circles.
Many people who pass, touch us individually in different ways. They leave finger prints of love, laughter, leadership and leading lessons with us.
In order for humanity to look back at their beautiful testaments, contained in the scrolls of their life signature and connect instantaneously with the rich heartfelt lessons left us to saviour.
In life, a mirror of one's lifespan hanging before us, with its inverse image capturing a face of death. Such a sad reflection paralyzes and left deep severe wound which may not heal even with the passage of time.
For if you walk in the shadow of the living, you walk not far away in the shadow of the lifeless. As such, it measures that, death of any anybody is death too close of home.
For instance, where there was one dearest, to your heart, and such a dear soul is snatched away, disappearing within a wink of an eye from the face of earth mother, such surrender changed the cause of history.
As such the fresh air you once breath with them, the environment you once shared together becomes mist, and eventually your time like those you admire will eventually run empty and be exhausted.
As such one day, in the same way you rest your fellow travelers. The bell would toll for you, me and everybody at the time the season of sombre chime "Time's Up!"
In a manner of accepting the inevitable. One accepts reluctantly an argument advanced which proclaims: mortal remains of our loved ones, upon transcending to the world of the dead is heeded for a better place.
To be reunited with their kin and kith, in order to be rested on the arable bosom of the Mighty Higher Being and live happily after.
And, one is led to believe, albeit religiously a perpetually sold genesis, passed from one generation to the next which constructively set one's mind at bay, and make you look forward to your one-way ticket.
And, vow by a conveniently convincing conceived tagline which puts it succinctly. One who was and is now no longer, would henceforth come only through dreams to pay visitations and disappear without giving much in terms of where they are.
This we are led to believe is the one and the only available way in the afterlife. Mysteries of all mysteries, in instances, after going through an agonizing bereavement.
We are console and assured our beloved ones are destined to reside in eternal bliss. Where there's prospect for posterity and possibility for prosperity, with no punishment, poverty, pain or pang.
Those left behind, stand at the crossroad, their void is filled stories telling them those who left now stay in a land of the holy, and they are housed in heavenly homes coated with gold.
At times, when grief cast its shadow on a pathway of family of humanity. A commonplace trait in a child in me, is to confronts paternal and maternal omnipotent beings to search for convincing answers.
The mourning baby in my heart, would want to know, matter of fact what's the reason for living, if we are going to die?
This child never ceases to ask simple yet unanswered questions, which keeps popping up, in the event of every death.
It enquires, and wish to know why we die? As if, it knows why we are born. Save for somewhat (un)convincing theories, advanced from scientific perspective, spiritual realm including cultural and religious belief systems.
These ambiguous yet mystical believable truth or fictions, however smartly packaged, bring with it an unbearable and burdensome illusion like death itself.
Quite interesting, this line of thought is at the heart of one's existential. All times this réchauffé is push down one's throat allowing no space to challenge.
Somehow, death is in need of redemption! How it operates is as unpredictable as its sting. Sometimes, I wish to buy in the tired cliche propagating that, when one's name is called ones, crown awaits you on the other side.
However, in my case I want to begrudgingly accept what the world feeds me. And, stop questioning the dictates of the natural progression of earthly explanations.
It is worth acknowledging and accepting a call from the ancestral world means what it really means that you are no more. Perhaps, when one answered at whatever cost the call, they would have no misgivings.
However, each time I do surrender to the whims of some teaching without any reservations. A child in me wants to understand, why if we made from the soil must we go back to the source which is the soil and disintegrate to nothingness.
Why is eternity not on earth, because those we live with who become our friends and family impact on our own lives and leave a lasting legacy when the curtain of their performance is pulled down and come to an end.
Leaving us the poorer and more paralyzed for life, yearning for their wisdom, which is gone forever. In the event of death, unfortunately, whether one take to the streets, carrying placards with all sorts of demeaning slogans challenging and castigating death.
Nothing is likely to change. Death, but like a tyrant keep inflicting pains to humanity. Electing to keep a blind eye to heart wrecking scream, and leaving a bad taste in the mouth.
In the wake of its appearance, ignoring any plea for clemency. No matter how disparaging one writes about death. One thing for sure, death keeps on driving nails of sadness in one's heart.
There's nothing in life which compares to the sorrow one feels on receiving the news of death. Whenever, death takes over the reign, even the pain of losing a lover seem lighter.
Because those who leave us behind, will never even once become a part of us again. In reality, death is as acute as a tsunami which leaves destruction.
Death target those we can ill afford to lose. In the event of death, death pierce permanent incision on ones psyche.
Death like a callous volcanic phenomenon leave indelible marks. If I were to write to death, I would run out of surreal words to describe it.
It is not my intention to either condemn or celebrate death, because in deaths language tomorrow if its not my turn, is going to be somebody I know, until it touches me.
Yeah, no matter how one interrogates and ponder the real meaning for death's existence. You end up walking on a wobbling tight rope.
One always, like the sun rising from East and setting from West, remain in limbo wherever trying to make sense of why death leaves a permanent stain on our unsoiled fabric.
It's a foregone conclusion that from the beginning of time. Death's seasons scoop septic wounds in our system.
Death can never be said to be like a familiar winter which brings biting cold but we always look forward to embrace.
Death is never compared to the caressing summer's days which brings sweltering heat and soothing sun rays but leaves us looking forward to tomorrow.
Death on the one hand, whenever it rears its head, the beautiful and bright light of sunny summer days turns into gloom days.
Death on another hand, wherever it knocks on the door, its intoxicating waves of doom turns the biting cold days into colourless.
Death like someone watching life in slow motion. Eat on those who play host resolutely like cancer nd leave them daze for the rest of their lives.
Death, now and then keep on reminding me humans that respect for humanity is nonexistent. To compare death to a bully is an understatement. Maybe at this point it's worth asking.
Who are you? What are you made off? Where do you hide? Why target humanity? When are you rested? When exactly are we to be desensitized to your yoke? How do we deal with the aftermath of your visitation?
At times I wish to buy in, in the hypothesis that nothing is forever. But, you, known as I know that your death on the one hand you are an unfair player in this game called life.
Like surreptitious snake with an insatiable appetite, your death come unannounced.
Your hunger to feed on those we love rob us of the best brains. It strips us of those we smiled with, and those we shared special moments.
Oftentimes, you waylay those whose gift made us have a reason to love life. It's your last words which dethroned Chris Van Wyk one so beautiful with words.
If you care to read this Ode to Chris, death, my words are dripping with disbelief. Herein is a tribute to a maestro wordsmith. Man among man who made words to dance, laughter and whisper softly in our ears.
Yes, death you have taken with you a gentle giant. It necessary to doff my hat to a fellow traveler. The late Chris Van Wyk was words, and words began to shape and define his entire world.
He was covered with words and had the knack to brew them like potent homebrew. His words at time glistened like minerals. He builds a mine of words, and dig them to enthralled, entertain and educate.
To shelter himself from the mundane, Chris escape to the world of words. A word which offered him solace. He lived unapologetically in an environment exploding with beautiful, blessing and bull-shitting words.
Using the art of sawing with word, he knitted for his people an anti - apartheid full proof garments which was wrapped round bodies of men and women who rise against the hostile regime.
As Chris' words were in the beginning, so will they be in the future. To many who were influenced by his words, he would remain royalty, a real king of the word.
Such was the sparks of affinity between Chris and the cutting-edge words he so delicately and dedicatedly makes.
He loves and invested dearly in words, for his entirely life. One would be forgiven for think Chris was born clasping words in his hands.
These words he never once, contemplated to divorced, distance and desert them, to in pursuit another glorious career path.
For as long as I knew Chris, his suitcase was brimful of his worldly words. His words opened for his readers the prison doors and gave us picture of torture of our brothers and sisters.
He makes us travelled to the world that traces footsteps of our leaders. Thought his words he was able to immortalized Mandela for countless world children, of the world.
His words offered sanctuary for those in need of forgetting their hardship and seek answers from his words.
To honour his delicious words, Chris remained loyal to his words. Words also served him well, he also reciprocates by remaining a part of them, until death do them apart.
Chris was joined to words for life. To someone like me, Chris taught me a lesson to commit to doing what one loves unconditionally.
In my mind I imagine a scenario where Chris even as he gasps the last breadth. Holding his pen writing to his dear gods. Before dropping his instrument of trade for some in our midst to take over where he left over.
Never have I witness such a committed person to his work. Like a Foot soldier leading from the front, Chris carried his words with his shoulders held high.
He was always standing upright, and carried his arsenal like a well drilled patriot. Whose well-oiled rifle never malfunctioning and misfires no matter the answering, rat-rat-tang heavy fire of the enemy, stationed on the other side.
Chris was known for firing a volley of touching words with his loaded rifle, inside the heart of the dispossessed, spurring them to live in hope in a hopeless and wretched world.
He was also not shy to train his lethal missiles powered by poetic justice to the bastion of the untouchable oppressors.
Each time, whenever his poisonous missiles hit the target, he use to smile sarcastically and counting his casualties.
Chris was known for employing word like mortar bombs to implode the whole of the apartheid infrastructure from its foundation, and blow them to smitten.
Leaving in his trail mountains of debris which humiliated the power that be, within the Pretoria security apparatus.
Each moment Chris was tirelessly and carefully Moulding words like a sculpture does to his or her bust sculpting the model with nibble hands.
He created a world of words for his endearing audience to worship. His writing was a glorious church where some went to pray for a lifetime.
Paying reverence to the stream of healing flowing with sweet words until kingdom come. Chris' bold body of words, words he himself masterfully crafted, reminded us of time trapped and frozen in spaces familiar yet unfamiliar.
The very words of Chris became a language of inquest, a vocabulary of innocence, a dictionary of intrigue, a bible of innovations, a voice of interrogation, an inspiring text and an instrument to investigation injustices.
As if those words respected his own wishes, they also lived in him, in the process defining this wordsmith's universal interpretation of the world within, and a wretched world.
Through his well packaged words Chris campaign for classless communities and colourless coexistence. Through his words he was able to offered counsel to those conquered and crushed by colonists.
He was a chief commander of words which became a clarion call to his generation and those who encountered him at a later stage.
Through his wise powerful words, he offered counsel to those censured for claiming their own country. Through his words he coordinated circumstances of those club to submission by circumstances beyond their making.
And, through his words he comforted and championed the causes of the conscientious. His words became a canvass from which comrades in camps carefully assessed the situation in the country of their birth.
Here we were a Chris a chapter of bliss in the dark days. His verses of hope in flushed fear in our life as we challenged the system.
His words help use as a nation to write a script of euphoria in our triumphant moment. His deep words to provide ammunition for activists to dance and shoot at the same time.
But Chris lived life behind sandbag of words, firing bombardment of words, against the system of segregation. When he had disappeared in the world of world, he was fearless.
During the most callous days of apartheid, he used litany of acidic words to fire bow and arrows tearing footprints and footsteps of our oppressor.
He also lived in dreams and desire, loving life and was prepared through his words to risk life and limb. Mostly, because of Chris' modesty I was unable to tell him in his face that he was the light of life.
In fact, he was undoubtedly the god of words in my books. He was able build paradise through hold no barrel words. His godly like writing elicited mixed feeling on many people depending on which side you were standing.
The late Chris' make up was cloved with words, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. Seldom do one encounter someone whose bloodstream flows with words in the best and worst of times.
In the world of words Chris was beautiful. Outside the world of words Chris was a man of few words, in my own assessments.
At SACHED Trust where his office was few doors away from mine, Chris chisel words, and if he had disappeared in the world of words he appeared at ease and content.
Those who encountered Chris will remember him as a genius with words. Although it's been years I had exchange pleasantry with Chris Van Wyk, his words reached me anywhere and everywhere I was holed up.
His books were always in my company. For those of Chris' fans who loved to hide behind his words. Chris has left a treasure trove of word to continue where he left off.
Lala kahle Chris Van Wyk!
By Zanele Mashinini
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