On 1 May 2025, I attended the memorial service of Kgolagano Kholofelo Seane, a 19-year-old young man who lived on the corner of my street. It was only the second memorial service I’ve ever attended. The first was for my brother, Kwena F Mahape, in 2022 — a principal whose service was held at Tlhabane Technical High School, where he worked.
Kholo’s memorial was held at Copperleaf Private School in the Copperleaf Golf Estate.
Memorial services are difficult, but I believe they are necessary. They allow us to shed loving tears. They play a role in our healing and in the slow, painful acceptance of loss. When people share the positive experiences they had with the deceased, it gives us a kind of grace. It softens the sharp edge of absence.
My brother was over 60 when he died. Kholo was only 19. That age gap is hard to reconcile. It messes with the mind. Death at an older age feels tragic but somehow acceptable — part of the rhythm of life. But death at 19? It disrupts that rhythm. It jars the soul.
I was heartbroken during the service — not only by the loss itself, but by the strangeness of the experience. Teenagers — kids, really — were standing on stage, speaking about death. They’ve been forced into a reality no young person should ever face. Their carefree days were cut short. These boys, who probably believed in “YOLO,” now face something irreversible.
They were with Kholo when he took his final breath on the N1 highway — in the dark, in the cold, without their parents, alone.
We’ve all done reckless things in our youth. But few have had to watch one of their own lie still on the roadside, wrapped in foil, cars speeding by at 120 km/h. That image should not belong to teenagers. These boys are just children.
They spoke about how Kholo held them accountable, even when he too was mischievous. One of them — the boy who owned the car Kholo was driving — described their friendship with a kind of reverent tenderness. He said he rarely went out unless Kholo was there. He trusted him — they trusted each other.
What I saw on that stage were young men showing character, showing leadership. Boys trying to navigate life — their own personal universes — while still figuring out who they are. They came from different homes, different families, but they were united in one thing: they all needed love. The kind of love that we all need. The kind of love that, at 19, still feels like it must come from your mother.
Kholo’s mother gave a heartfelt speech. You could feel the deep bond they shared. She was supported on stage by friends — mutual friends of mine — and seeing them broke me. None of us are even 50 yet, and here one of us is, speaking of their child in the past tense. WTF?
Kholo’s father didn’t speak in soft tones. His message wasn’t there to comfort — it was there to tell the truth. I can’t recall every word, but I remember the feeling. He spoke from a place I understand. The same place I speak from. He spoke of the quality of one’s company and of responsibility.
And then I understood something deeper: Kholo was the glue in his circle because he carried the wisdom of his father and the love of his mother.
Kholofelo. Hope.
We live only in hope.
Without hope, there is no life.