memorial wall

This page is established in the memory of those who have departed, who meant the world to me. I hope someday we shall reunite. You may be gone but you are never forgotten. To have been loved by you is the greatest privilege, to have loved you a greater honor!

Mogweranyana Ramarea (d. 1999)

I was only 5 years when that monster, chronic renal failure robbed me of you. I only have a few memories of you, but they will do. Remember the time you had brought me some metsena from your work shift? Remember the time we, Mama and I, took you to the hospital? Remember the time we sat by our matlhakwana and your nose bled? And you wiped it with that cloth that you had? You probably wont remember this, but I remember your funeral. Or at least I think I do, maybe I have been told this story enough times to think I do. The story of how when I saw your body in the coffin, I had laughed out and exclaimed, "Look, it is only papa in a box. They thought I would be scared". The oblivion of childhood. But mama did a great job of raising me to be an upright man, who while not perfect, tries to radiate love out into the universe.

Ramarea Kgakgathiba (d. 2000)

I only remember how in your last days you were carried around in a wheelbarrow. As a child I thought it was funny that you "played" on a wheelbarrow. Nowadays I use your name as my own. I hope you are proud of all that I am yet to achieve. I can only hope to take this name to greater heights, so that when people hear it, they will have hope for a better future.

Dithunthung Dikeledi Kgakgathiba (d. 2003)

Yours is the first death that reached the core of my heart. I remember how when we used to play house, and pretend the Mosetlha tree in your yard was rice, you would play along and say our food was delicious. I still remember that last time you asked me to make you tea. I was only 9 years old and did not really like making tea. At first I wanted to say no, but then I was proud you gave me such a responsibility. I remember collecting fire wood then warming up the water for your tea in a blackened baby formula can. You reminded me that you liked Tanganda Tea and not Five Roses, and you want some mosukujane with it, unlike my mother's longana. I remember you saying I made tea like a girl. What a proud moment. Then a few weeks later they had told us that you had gone to South Africa. When you came back for the night vigil, you were in a casket and your body was so much slimmer. They said it was the morgue that reduced your weight. You wore a church uniform, although I had never seen you go to church. Perhaps because of your feet that needed only Bata shoes. I remember how sad I felt when they dismantled that legendary home made bed you had used for as long as I could remember.

Otlaadisa Tlhobosi Ramarea (d. 2003)

When I heard you were missing, I never thought much of it. Then on a Wednesday they said they found your remains. It was decayed and therefore we could not mourn you for the customary full week before the burial. The morgue could only keep you for a few hours. So you were going to be buried the next day. I never saw your body, but those who did said you were killed for your body parts. To be used in rituals as was (or is?) the norm. Especially during election season. It was alleged that you were sold by your close friends. Who had drunk with you all those years. This was the first traumatic experience of my life. I have never been able to sleep with both my eyes closed since this incident. You were such a sweet soul. You would go and have your alcohol, then come back to entertain us. You never fought anyone. Was not a person for conflict. You would stop by my mother's house, your brother's house, and whatever was left of the fly's head we would share with you. They killed you and laughter died. Who could turn every day narratives into rib cracking laughter like you? I am yet to meet a person who stepped like you did. I remember you stepped on the side of your foot and hence your shoes will get worn out on the outside. I used to find your missing teeth very entertaining. Why did they even call you Ramotlhobogwa? Names do carry a lot of weight. Remind me to call my children Hope and Love.

Sethunya Baibi (d. 2004)

About a month before your death you came to my house. You promised me you would give me P1 the next time you visited. When I heard of your death I was heartbroken. Not because of your death or the dramatic circumstances around it. But because you "chose" to die before giving me my P1. Do you know how much P1 meant to a 9 year old in 2003/04? It was only later that I realized the foolishness of my thoughts. You were a man of style, cousin. Known in the world famous diamond mining town of Jwaneng. You had the best taste in fashion and your photograph poses were only second to our uncle Shimane's.

Kemoneilwe Baibi (d. 2010)

It was the last Friday of April, it had been raining that morning. Mama came back from the hospital and told us that it was done. I wanted to feel sad, but all I could feel was relief. Relief that my mother did not have to take care of you anymore. It hurt me to see her sad all the time. But she could not abandon you like her other children did. But above all, I felt relieved that you did not have to suffer anymore. Seeing you lose your dignity like that to Alzheimer's killed me. At your funeral I read out messages of sympathy from family and friends. But I felt guilty standing there, at the head of your casket after I had refused to view your body one last time. I was scared if I did, you would really be gone. I was not ready to let you go. Even though at the height of your AD you had assaulted me once, it was not enough to erase all the love you had showed me all those years before. I am convinced that I was your favorite grandson. Remember how you used to buy me fruits, and allow me to eat leftover rice with milk. Unlike my mother, you would never let me eat mosokwane without sugar and milk. I did not have to wait for you to finish coffee before pouring myself a cup. We drank coffee together. I was the only child allowed to sit on your red sofas. Those red sofas that my cousins and siblings know the pain of your beating whenever they had tried to sit there. I remember whenever my uncle would come to visit, you would always save me some of the treats that he brought specifically for you. I remember I used to feel jealous when my mother would visit us when I was staying with you over the school holidays because then she too would get some of the treats. I love my mother, but I never wanted to share your love with her. You were the best grandma ever. I miss how you always called a spade a spade and never cared for political correctness.

Shimane Kebaikantse (d. 2010)

As I mentioned above, your visits were always a delight. Bringing my grandma (and therefore me) treats and money. You would give me a lot more money than I could spend. Money which my mother would take and never pay back because she claimed I needed to pay her for her milk before she can pay me back. I remember after your retirement, you would come to my mother's a lot. Mostly to check on granny, but other times because you too were sick and needed caring for. One of my fears is ending up unmarried like you. Anyway, I used to like washing your cars because then you would give me some money and promise me you will teach me how to drive someday. I can drive now. My fondest memory is the day we went to collect firewood. You sat there by your car, while my little brother, my cousin and I collected the wood and loaded it into the car. I admired you. You were a big man. Powerful and with money. You complimented my excellent academic performance. I used to get happy when people complimented me for my intelligence. And I was very intelligent. At your funeral I shed a tear or two, and read the messages of sympathy. Here too, I had refused to view the body. I hope I do not end up unmarried. What is the point of success if you don't have a soul mate to share it with and children to leave the legacy to? Maybe a better world, like you did for us. But I will always prefer a romantic story over one of selfless sacrifice.

Mosimaneotsile Watshipi (d. 2010)

In my memory of my childhood, there is often a scarcity of positive male figures. But you were one of the few men in my life who I looked up to and admired. You were the leader of our Matlotla clan: negotiating weddings, prosecuting pre-marital pregnancies, and in moments of death, providing the comfort that only an elder could. You were truly the old tree under whose shadow we found rest in times of adversity and hardship. Your generosity used to propel me to walk - or drive my koloi ya diterata - to your house in goo-Lobeko. My mother used to always correct me that it was not your house, but your wife's house as is the custom in our culture. She discouraged me from saying kwa ga Rra Rebaone but instead to say kwa ga Mma Rebaone. In each of those visits, I would never return empty handed. On some occasions I would leave with the sweet music of coins clicking against one another in my pockets, and other occasions you would send me back with a piece of meat for my mother to cook - and meat was a scarce commodity in my childhood. When the lemons were in season, I would often leave with a bag full of them. Now with the wisdom of age, I think the single most important thing about you that I admire the most was how you stayed true to your calling to serve the ancestors. I hope someday I can be as courageous - and tolerant - as you in these matters. I was unable to come see you off for reasons beyond my control, but I trust your soul continues to be at rest. May you, along with the rest of the ancestors of my clan, continue reducing the friction along my path.

Mothusi "Rubuki" "Scazo" Ramarea (d. 2011)

It was in the evening of a weekday, you were either going to or coming from the hospital with my mother and aunt. I had not seen you in a week despite knowing that you were sick. I always meant to go see you but I was always so busy with school. My heart pained to see you so thin. You had lost a lot of weight. Then a few days later you died. I remember the ambulance that took you to the hospital. That same ambulance came to take me once when I thought I was dying of abdominal pains and it traumatized me. Anyway, I felt sorry that you had died but I was studying really hard because I wanted to go abroad. I could not allow anything to stop my momentum. I did not cry. I did not take time off school as I should have. I went to school. Still earlier than I should and came back later than I should, my mother had stopped complaining. But the Friday of your night vigil, I was at school and I told myself I should be a good child and go home. I helped with the preparations for the funeral the next day. I was strong. I could not cry. At least until they brought that casket that had your body in it. I broke down and cried. I cried for hours. I was going to refuse to see your body too, because I was afraid (still am) of dead bodies. But I wanted to be sure you really died. You had. I was sad because over the 2 years that you had come to live in Kanye I had enjoyed your company. When I was growing up you stayed at the cattle post, but for some reason you came to live in Kanye. You were a generous man. The little that you made at Ipelegeng, you would always give me some to buy airtime so I could text my girlfriend. I was hoping someday you would lead a delegation to her house. That did not work out.

Batho Etsile Madigele (d. 2014)

A week before I received news of your death you had texted me to tell me about that girl that I may or may not have dated that you were interested in asking out. We briefly talked also about your interest in changing your studies to Finance. I was delighted when you told me you were happier and glad the transplant had gone well. So you can only imagine the shock I felt when I received numerous texts from home asking me if it is true that you were gone. I remember thinking to myself that it is a dream. That if I went to classes maybe it would not be true. I went to classes. It was still true. I could not stay there. The need to come to your funeral restored my faith in the goodness of humanity. My UWC family and their families came together in less than 5 hours to raise the money I needed to make the trip home. Due to a delayed flight somewhere I ended up missing your funeral by a few hours. Your parents took me to your final resting place and gave me the honors of writing "Big Man" on your grave. Although it has been this long, I am still sad that you were taken from us that soon. Now who do I complain about my girl problems (or lack thereof) to? If you were here you would probably help me process the feelings I have for this other girl. Remember how we used to throw shade at different things during our fundraising campaigns? Remember how we, you, Moabi and I, were gentlemen that time and rode on a van to allow the women to ride in comfort? Remember how we first met at Mookami through our rivalry for academic awards? I remember how you used to crack jokes in debate club, but you did not stay for long because you thought ping pong was better. I miss our heart to heart conversations. Sometimes I get lost and miss talking to you because you were always honest and you were always quick to call out my bullshit when you saw it. In fact today I talked with a friend about you and remembered how much I still struggle to let you go in peace. Why do young people have to go, too? Your resilient spirit gets me going.

Biggy Borupile (d. 2016)

Yours was the worst because I was here at Stanford. Unlike UWC, there were not a bunch of people ready to help me process your death. There were well-meaning people who had GPAs to uphold, who would ask me how I was holding up? Or suggest I visit CAPS or The Bridge or Windhover or Memorial Church...I never attended your funeral and my cousins were not ready to go show me your final resting place when I eventually made it home, 3 weeks later. What a loving aunt. I remember the time I had come over to your house for a day and ended up staying for a week because you decided to slaughter a goat for me. At family weddings, I always knew I could count on you when I wanted something. Especially that fried chicken that was usually reserved for those picky old women who suddenly became allergic to beef and goat meat. You were a sweetheart.

Dorcus Thololwana (d. 2016)

You were supposed to wait for me to have my first job so I could buy you your tea (and all those other sweet things you liked that you probably should not have continued to take, given your diabetes). You were supposed to make sure I get married before you left. You promised me that you would not leave before doing these things when I had seen you 6 months earlier. With my mother sick, you were to be my mother when it was time for me to turn my plate of food upside down. But you left. You always used to say I was going to take the Ramarea name to far away places. You left before you saw where else I was to take it. I am taking it to Canada in a few days. I miss the stories of the "wild" days of your youth, when you used to work in South Africa. I miss the fine places you knew to hide your money. I miss how you were one of those old women who suddenly became allergic to everything at weddings to have the finest food. I miss, also, trying your snuff tobacco with my cousin whenever you would send us to your dealer. But you could always tell when it had been tampered with. You are missed!

Goitseone Tururu (d. 2018)

Perhaps it was selfish of me not to come see you in December. I had heard of your illness and made a conscious decision not to see you in that state so that if you should die, my last memory of you would be of you when you still had all the life in you. I hope you understand that having lost so many family members to illness and still healing from all the scars in my soul left by the ugly memories I have of them on their death beds, I had to make that decision. I feel sad that I will never see you again, that I will never be annoyed by you calling me out for trying to feel like I am better. Not that I agree with you, oh no! I disagree! But because it was somewhat a grounding mechanism. Although I was born into poverty, I refuse to die in it. So that way I disagree! Remember that one time I came to borrow money so I could go and buy a pack of sweets to sell. I do not remember if you were able to give the money or not but the fact that I thought of you is testament to how much of a support system you were. Like my family, you did not have much, but I am grateful we could never go to bed hungry if you had food in your house. How can I ever say goodbye?

Stewart McGurk (d. 2018)

You passed on in December and I did not find out until August: a whole 8 months later! After you had graduated from Stanford, I thought you were out there living your best life. After all you were working for the US Army, a job you loved and a responsibility you did not take lightly, and you were placed in your favorite region: (East) Asia. The only news I was waiting to hear of you was of you making it up the ranks. But I found out you gave your life for your country. You were a man with a big heart. I will forever consider myself blessed for the privilege to befriend you and your family during your time at Stanford. Thank you for all the wisdom you passed on to me during the meals we shared. You are gone too soon. Be thou at peace, brother.

Norah Borus (d. 2019)

I am unsure if I have any right to put you up on my Memorial Wall. I have been thinking about the meaning of the word friend. By my Tiered Friendship System, you were only in the third tier. Maybe freshman year you were in tier 2, but as these things often go, we drifted apart. Whether it is right or not, my spirit feels moved to honor you and your life by offering a few comments. My favorite memory of you remains as that one Lakeside brunch in freshman spring. Remember? The one where you immortalized the contours of my uncombed hair with your camera. I still remember the smile on your face; clearly impressed with your work. A smile and light you continued to radiate during each of our random encounters - mostly at Arrillaga Dining. Including the last time I would see you, 5 weeks before you were to pass on. The death of someone so young, whose life is, at least from the outside, full of promise, is always devastating. How do we even begin to make sense of it? But those are questions that are beyond my current consciousness. So for now, thank you for being the light that you were. Go well and be at peace!

Ntutugatsana Tebogo (d. 2020)

I did not expect your passing to affect me the way it did. As I have been living abroad for nearly a decade now, there is a lot of relatives that I have not kept in touch with, you were one of them. But upon hearing of your death, my heart broke and my soul hurt in ways I never knew they could. The love I have felt for you as a child was reawakened. I was reminded of the warmth of your hospitality, that you would extend to my grandma and I when we would visit your house from time to time. Of your reliability, in fulfilling your traditional role in the weddings of my older siblings. In you, we have lost a true matriarch! You were one of my mothers, and it pains me that you will not participate in my wedding when I wed my life partner, wherever she is. Go well crocodile, swim easy to the other side. Thank you for instilling in me such a deep love. It is a privilege.

Kebonyemotse Bambase Matsididi (d. 2020)

I am sad. It is not your death that saddens me, that is the only thing that is guaranteed in this life. We will all die, sooner or later. There is no surprise there. I am sad that I am unable to grieve you in community. Although I weep now, I remain unbroken because - as T.S. Eliot alludes in Journey of the Magi - death and birth are one and the same. How can I be broken when your death on this plane means your birth in the ancestral plain? I draw solace from the knowledge and faith that you are now amongst those guiding my path from the other world. I remember you by the many pasta meals we have prepared over the years, and our complicated business relationship that my sister did not approve of. I celebrate the ways in which you have nurtured your love more than your violence. In this regard, especially, you were a greater man than I am. I have never told you but 4 years ago I was in a similar position but I reacted with such a violence that today I am disgusted to look at myself in the mirror. So while I mourn your death, I am delighted your experience will be a part of the ancestral guidance as I strive to reject and denounce the violent ways of our species. There is a lot I could say. Like how you were more than a brother-in-law, but a brother to me. Of all my siblings, you knew teenage me the best. You knew both my light and my shadow. What can be better than being fully witnessed? It has been a privilege being your little brother. Thank you for everything. Rest easy now, will you?

Kepatilwe "Banyana-Banyana" Wadipone (d. 2021)

You have lived a long life and that should make it easier to say goodbye, at least so I think. Receiving the news of your passing was bittersweet. On the one hand I was happy to know you suffer no more. The past few months have been really hard on you and having seen photographs of you these past few months, I cannot even imagine the pain and suffering you were in. But on the other hand, you being gone hurts so much. My favorite memory of you is from the day I came to visit you with my friend whom you mistook for my significant other. I tried to use a Tswana idiom to convince you otherwise, but you - with all of your infinite wit and wisdom - flipped the idiom around to defeat my defense. I love this memory because it captures what you were - an old tree we came to for shade against harsh weather, from whose fruits we were nourished, and whose flowers we boasted about. I lament all the wisdom you left with, that I could not capture before you left. But when the time comes for the great crocodile to swim yonder to the other side, all we can say is: "Thank you for loving us, for the privilege to love you, and may you keep our paths illuminated and spotless from the other side."