My sister and the 18-year-old man who raped and murdered her in 2010 grew up together. He was my best friend, almost my brother.
My sister and the 18-year-old man who raped and murdered her in 2010 grew up together. He was my best friend, almost my brother.
We even did the things that Xhosa boys do together before circumcision. We were inseparable. Our friendship kept us in one piece.
I remember him as a good young man. He was generous, forgiving, compassionate, even gentle. He was tidy and clean, and taught me the value of self-respect. He had dreams. He wanted to be successful, a better person. In the township to be a better person means to be successful, and success is typically measured in material terms.
He took school seriously and we did our homework together. But he was driven by mistaken ideals, by the false promise of prosperity rather than for a more meaningful life. He was slowly sipping from a poisoned chalice.
He wanted to come to university and to become a businessman. But he was sentenced to 22 years in jail.
His uncle was an alcoholic who drank umtshovalale and was part of a group of old drinkers who spent most of their time in my friend’s yard. These men were ridiculed by children (they laughed and threw stones at them). But my friend would always treat them with respect, as elders should be respected. He was a very obedient young teenager. He taught me to respect elders, even if they were lost to the bottle. This struck me at the time as something amazing. He helped me grow.
My family was renting a two-room unit from his family. In 2007 we moved because they needed it. Soon after moving out he told me that life is no longer interesting to him since I moved away. In his words, “Nditsho ndapholelwa bubomi lento umkile nje”. He resented his family for having separated us.
Before moving we did everything together. We opened our eyes to the world together and we were both deeply passionate and serious about our education. We wanted to go further in life. We dreamt about being adults together, and sharing our lives with our chosen families. We were inseparable. His world and mine were the same, like the lives of David and Jonathan.
We held each other together. As teenagers, we went out for drinks. He did not hesitate to pay, knowing that I had no money. He even gave me clothes so that I could look smart.
He had money and girls liked him. I had no girlfriends. I was an isishumane (a man who is too poor to have a girlfriend).
We didn’t see much of each other after I moved. I became a devout Christian, something that helped structure my life in conditions that encourage the living of entirely unstructured lives, that is, that encourage living for nothing. My faith gave me a reason to live that was higher than my concrete living conditions.
In my home there was discipline. My mother was strict. She knew that we needed some kind of order in our lives.
My friend came from a reckless household. Nobody expected anything from him. And he didn’t have the friendship that kept his life in order. He became like his uncle, someone to be ridiculed by children.
If I hadn’t moved, things would have been different. He would not have turned out to be the man that he became.
He saw that my sister and I were progressing and he wasn’t. He stagnated and became envious of us, for he had lost hope.
Envy, that caustic force that is consuming our township, fuelled by the measure of goodness (or success) on the other side of the chasm between rich and poor, permanently there, cruelly teasing. He abandoned school after having failed Grade 11.
My sister went to Grade 12. He ravaged her before Matric results were out. She did well and would have started university the following year.
We were such good friends. I still feel for him. Despite the horror, I am convinced that he is a good person. I find it almost impossible to think of him as a murderer.
I miss my sister terribly.
Today I am studying philosophy at Rhodes. More than material success, I am interested in intellectual success. I am here to understand. What is life all about? What is the good life? Why am I here? Who am I?
What frustrated him the most was the separation between him and I. This led him to desperation. Our friendship was very important to him. It organised his life, gave it purpose. “Life is no longer interesting to me”, he said. He saw that I did not despair, that I was working for the dreams that we shared. That frustrated him and fuelled his envy.
My sister and I reminded him of the dreams we had shared. This was like mental violence to him. It’s as if we were attacking him with our lives. He had to retaliate.
After he was sentenced, as the police van was taking him away, he shouted out my name, as if nothing had happened.
This article is co-authored by Pedro A. Tabensky and the brother of the victim, who has chosen to remain anonymous. This is the second instalment of a series of monthly reflections on our city. The aim is to generate conversation about our place and its meanings. Tabensky, series editor and author of this piece, is the Director of the Allan Gray Centre for Leadership Ethics, located in the Department of Philosophy, Rhodes University.
