Of all losses, the loss of a father, brother, a friend, a male colleague is ... most painful. We black men suffer a lot of disappointments in our lives. We grew up subjected to injustice and inequality. It is the bond and intuitive connection with amaGents, amajita, Izinja ze Game, these brothers and friends that comforted the soul. They have always been there to make the pain bearable.
Now they are going ... falling .. one by one like dominoes. Growing up in the townships we have subconsciously come to accept that loss, rejection, discrimination, failure, unemployment, joblessness will be part of our lives.
Sadly, our automatic response has always been to protect ourselves, put up self-defence mechanisms. One of these measures has been to remember that we have brothers at the street corner or favourite drinking place.
These brothers are our first port of call. In their absence we feel alone and abandoned. When in trouble with our sisters or aunts or wives and partners, it is to these male friends that we turn.
It is tough to be a black man, a man. We are choking and cannot breathe. We are vulnerable. Often we are not aware of how much we relied on our brothers, our friends or colleagues for support until we read on Facebook or get a call that they have been taken away. This marks the loss of a bonding, of brotherhood. These are men without who the circle is broken, incomplete.
Their sudden departure strips us of our defences. There is a sense of abandonment that coldly echoes Steve Biko's words, "Black man, you are on your own." This mantra suddenly hits deep in your heart. It plunges you into the sadness of loneliness. When we learn of the death of yet another brother, we not only mourn the loss of a friend but a pillar of support, someone we could rely on. These are fellow men who understood and accepted us for who we are.
But because we are men we never seek counselling. We phone each other, we write to each other, we talk to each other, we shrug our shoulders and say "it is life". We shall not mourn. We shall not lament. Of course there is no way we could have anticipated that some of our brothers who are so close and yet so far will die so young.
We now in these trying times have to confront the agonising pain and emptiness that follows the news that "he collapsed and died". Or, it was Covid. This is unlike the pain of a breakup or a divorce or the tragic death of a father or mother. What happens with this Angel of Death that walks this earth is devastating.
Every second or third day we are stunned. We are numbed by the sudden announcement that yet another brother, another father, another friend, another colleague. Bongani Khumalo ... the list is endless. There's something deep in the cells of our body that just grows cold. We just resign ourselves and say, "it is life. We've got to keep on going." We refuse to believe this is happening. We refuse to accept all the messages God and the ancestors are sending us.
We say that is part of life, and life is part of death. And yet we know that everything has changed and nothing will be back to normal. We are living a bad dream. Our freedom and democracy, achievement and success have turned into a nightmare.
Soon we have to realise that we are powerless. Everything that we have worked for: the cars, the mansions, the designer labels, the money in the bank accounts, the food, mean absolutely nothing. A new reality has set in. And we begin to crumble inside. We do not have values and ideals and aspirations to look up to.
There's nothing to ground us. We wake up to look at the world that is horrifying, brutal and traumatising. It is cold out there, our future looks bleak. We are paying for sins we do not know, have not committed. But we have always learnt to say, "Kuzolunga – things will be alright." We must understand that the end of the world as we know it is here. We have nothing else but ourselves. Let us love one another.
• Memela is spokesperson of the SA Receiver of Revenue. He wrote this article in his personal capacity
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