On Friday, 20 June 2025, I attended my first book launch. It took place at Exclusive Books in Rosebank Mall and was for a novel titled Lefatshe ke la Badimo, written in Setswana by Sabata-mpho Mokae.
I was introduced to the author by the late Marukgwane Moremogolo, a man who once ran while reading Moletlo wa Manong. That memory still lives with me. As a proud Motswana at heart, I was deeply impressed by Maru’s actions and what they represented — a gesture of pushing for literacy among Black South Africans, not in English, but in our mother tongues.
The event came to my awareness through the Literacy for Life Facebook page — proof that we now rely on digital villages to stay informed. The turnout was impressive, and the energy in the room reflected it. I had no previous launches to compare it to, which made it easier to be present and absorb the richness of the moment — the story, the language, the people, and the pain.
The discussion was led by author Tuelo Gabonewe. We were taken through the book’s creative journey, and Rre Mokae explained how the story came to him — painfully — after reading the first three chapters of Sol Plaatje’s Native Life in South Africa. Lefatshe ke la Badimo tells the story of a family, led by RraMothibi Kgobadi, who were forcibly removed from their ancestral land in June 1913.
On their way to Dikhudung, their two-year-old daughter died. But due to the colonial laws and their landless state, they had to pretend she was still alive — carrying her body until they could find a place, after dark, to bury her. They were denied even the basic dignity of laying a child to rest on her own soil. Why? Because white settlers had stolen the land, and the theft had been legalized.
As Rre Mokae narrated this, I felt my energy shift. He was telling a tragic story from 1913, yet here we are in 2025 — still talking about land reform. Still. Talking. I was born in 1977, a slave in a concentration camp called Temba, north of Pretoria. These concentration camps are in every town — today we call them townships — built to house Black labour for white comfort. That is our truth.
So yes, I sat in a cozy Rosebank bookstore, surrounded by literature and some sipping on wine — but the irony was heavy. We were discussing ancestral land loss while still being landless. And the ANC, the so-called liberators, want to start another “dialogue.” The pain of that contradiction was thick in the air.
As people asked questions and made comments, it became clear: we are wounded. Deeply. Person after person praised Rre Mokae’s courage while sharing their own grief. The grief of writing while ignored. The grief of being thinkers and artists in a country that rewards political scavengers. The grief of existence without dignity… without maemo.
I also spoke.
I am not a speaker. I was surrounded by literary royalty. I was nervous. But I knew I had to say something. My message was simple: we must capture our stories digitally. We must publish blogs, speak in our languages, and use social media and AI to share our truth. Because the world is changing fast, and reading is dying. Or maybe it was never truly alive among us. So now we need creativity. We need to grab attention.
Neo Matsunyane also spoke about the lack of Setswana stories in mainstream TV and drama. I replied directly — no one is coming with a budget to save us. We must learn AI and build these productions ourselves. With little. With honesty. With urgency.
I later felt slightly guilty, like I had hijacked Rre Mokae’s moment to spread my own “propaganda.” But I also felt relieved. I spoke. I stood. I added value, even if incoherently. I gave my 5 cents when 2 were asked for — and I’m proud of that. Because if I hadn’t spoken, I wouldn’t have slept. I wouldn’t have been able to write this reflection.
After the event, I engaged with a few people, then made my way home. It was a beautiful way to spend a Friday evening. I felt at home among writers. It was a novel experience — fitting for the launch of a powerful novel.
Lefatshe ke la Badimo reminded me that the land remembers. And so must we.
Pula.