Rest in Power: Kwena Freddy Mokgalane-Mahape
December has always been a strange month for most families. A time of celebration mixed with unspoken tensions. Smiles layered over unresolved wounds. Laughter hiding the silent truths sitting between people.
This year, as Dizemba opens, I want to write about something heavy — something that has lived inside me, my family, and many black families: silence.
We love saying “silence means concern”, but the truth sits in the literal meaning of the words:
Silence means consent.
Not because the victim agrees to abuse,
but because the abuser interprets silence as permission.
The universe interprets silence as no objection,
as if we have accepted the pain,
as if we are willing participants in our own suffering.
And that is how cycles continue.
Silence kills — sometimes literally
My brother, Star_Fred, died from asthma.
But asthma was not the cause — it was the final exit point.
What killed him was silence.
He could not speak out about the abuse he received.
He had no outlet.
He suffered alone.
And while he was drowning in emotional poison,
I had already put a boundary between us.
I told him clearly:
“Do not talk to me about Moabi or my mother.
That door is closed. I choose life.”
I protected myself.
And that boundary, while necessary for my survival,
meant my brother suffered without me as a shield.
At his funeral, Moabi said:
“I was not close to him, but we grew close recently because of a family matter.”
In plain language, this means:
He became closer to his abuser because he had nowhere else to go.
Two people — both destructive to him — became his closest contacts in his final days.
This is the cost of silence.
This is the cost of families that cannot speak truth.
This is the cost of environments that do not allow emotional honesty.
Boundaries save lives — even when they break hearts
A boundary is a boundary.
Without it, you die.
With it, someone else may drown — but you survive.
This is the complexity of family.
This is the complexity of trauma.
This is the complexity of truth.
I do not regret protecting myself.
But I recognise the pain of what it meant for him.
Both things can be true.
Life is not tidy; it is a battlefield of choices.
Why this message matters now
As families gather this festive season:
- unresolved conflicts will surface
- old patterns will repeat
- roles from childhood will return
- silence will be expected
- abuse will be disguised as jokes
- pain will be swallowed “for peace”
But peace built on silence is not peace — it is slow death.
This December, speak.
Say NO.
Set boundaries.
Protect your spirit.
Choose environments that let you grow.
We cannot fix the past.
We cannot save everyone.
But we can learn from pain, honour the truth, and build new soil for ourselves and our children.
Rest in power, Star_Fred.
Your silence has spoken loudly.
We are listening now.