This past weekend, I found myself standing at the edge of two stories—one of physical death, and the other of spiritual estrangement. I buried a neighbour’s child with the community, and later, I walked my own son to the gate of my home. Both moments left me grieving in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
On Friday evening, the body of Kgolagano Kholofelo Seane—known simply as Hope—returned home. He was only 19. His white casket arrived to a guard of honour formed by his peers: young men and women of the Estate. Together, they moved slowly from the gate to the house. The moment was heavy. Inside, we prepared for go tlhoboga—the Setswana tradition of viewing the body. It’s the moment where mourners confront the truth: life is temporary. Flesh is temporary. Time is a lie we tell ourselves until it runs out.
I stood nearby as some of the young mourners emerged after viewing the body. Many were broken. I found myself gently double-tapping shoulders, acknowledging pain without words. Some bodies wept when touched. Others tensed. But something happened—validation. To be seen in pain is part of healing. Our mutual friend Dudu was doing her best to comfort the young women, but I saw her exhaustion too. I patted her back. We all carried the weight together.
At 04:30 the next morning, I was back at the Seane house. A group of men had kept vigil around the fire. Tired but present. I joined them. Around 07:00, I met Kholofelo’s mother, Hloni. I gently suggested she step outside and stand in the sun for ten minutes—alone. I told her: “The sun brings Kholofelo. Let Ramasedi hold you for a moment.”
At 09:00, the procession left for the church service. I went home to tend to my own plants, in quiet reflection. Later, at the cemetery, I stood on one side as the funeral unfolded. When the casket was lowered, I felt the pain in Hloni’s voice, but I also saw a woman who had found her peace. Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe she did speak to her son that morning in the light. Either way, she didn’t resist the burial. She accepted it. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
When the shovelmen began to fill the grave, I walked up and asked for a shovel. I called one of Kholofelo’s close friends to join me. More young men followed. This is our culture. We bury our own. Not just as a sign of respect, but as an act of closure. We do it for the dead and for the living.
I went home feeling complete. I had shown up, helped others grieve, and allowed emotions to move through me instead of avoiding them. Ke llile le batho—cried with others. I had done the work of the living.
But then I walked into my home and found my 17-year-old son packing his clothes while I wasn’t there. He hadn’t checked if I was home. He entered the estate silently, aided by his mother. When I returned, he was fumbling through his things while on his phone. The contrast from what I had just experienced struck me. I sat quietly. Then I stood up and walked outside—to the sun. I needed clarity.
I came back, told him to leave everything, and asked him to walk with me. We walked silently past the Seane house. Everyone was still at the cemetery. Then I walked with him to the main gate… and left him outside it. I told him to call his mother.
The Seane family has lost their son to death. I may have lost mine to something more subtle—disrespect, manipulation, confusion. A boy who does not respect himself cannot respect his father. A mother who encourages disobedience is not guiding a child, but using him. At 17, he became a trespasser in his own home. And I treated him like one.
Some may judge me. But I’m not here for applause. I’m here for truth.
The weekend reminded me that death is not always physical. Disconnection is also a kind of dying. But until our last breath, we have a chance to return. A chance to heal. A chance to honour what is sacred—life, truth, and Botho.
I’ll continue to walk in the light of Ramasedi. Even when it’s hard. Even when the pain is close.
Back to regular programming… but not back to who I was before this weekend.