An Ode to a strange brother – by Patrick Mosiane

‘Fate’, the English dictionary says, refers to the development of events outside a person’s control, regarded as predetermined by supernatural power. It does thus occur, that whereas some lives are fated to be worthless additions to the complex enterprise of living. If other lives are lived purposely for the benefit of humanity, to advance the cause of the human race to rid itself of the shackles of poverty and kwashiorkor, other lives may be considered a waste of space and time, an anathema and blemish to human civilisation.

What had the gods ordained to emerge from the birth, on 2 June 1971 of Thabo Mosiane, I do not know. What I can attest to, is that a force of nature came into being to help shape the conscience and cause of humanity towards a higher principle of justice for all. Whatever one makes of him, he is both a product of apartheid social disfiguration as he was of a miscarried freedom. He was born of a people that had been traumatised and dehumanised into a zombie-like creature that massacred each other for the left-overs on their oppressor’s table. The majority had internalised their inferiority and accepted theirs as the designs of the gods.

I did not wish him into politics, and like my cousin-brother (Windy Mosiane) tried with me before, wanted him to be an ordinary son to his mother. But some births are not defined by ‘ordinariness’. Whilst men and women, wise fools who speak better, much older and with pubic her beneath their armpits, shouted louder with their bark much worse than their bites, for him toothless groaning had no meaning. The year 1995 saw his metamorphosis into a force with which society was later to reckon as he began to affect the course of human development.

When a true history is written, it will record that in the land of Josie Mpama, Stix Morewa, Lucky Oganne, there once roamed a young warrior, in whose shadow many a man and woman made their claim to nobleness. They will proudly proclaim to the universe that they once walked with giants. Do we exaggerate when we say that he serves and belonged to Sangomas and born-again Christians alike? He made homes for the middle class as he did for those who lived in homes of corrugated irons. He was a Christian with a genuine affection for the struggle of the besieged children of Palestine.

Aristotle would have this said better in saying, “To be sure, he who never lived at the right time could hardly die at the right time! Better if he were never to be born”. Though he possessed no celestial powers, often he could foretell the future of a number of political palookas, chance-takers who mistook his party, the ANC for a joyride into honey-land. Just like Aristotle, he would entreat us all to remain truthful to the earth and not believe those who speak of superterrestrial hopes, for they are prisoners, whether they know it or not.

I never sought to tell you my brother was a messiah. For my mother is not Mary, Mother of Heaven. She does not give birth to angels. He was made of flesh and blood, needing nourishment and loving. Like all human beings who made efforts, sometimes he faulted and erred. By efforts he made. He felt pain and joy (mostly joy) owing to his being of flesh and blood. I had seen a lot of pain in his eyes, in those moments when he knew he was betrayed. He put a brave face to safeguard his mother from the vicissitude that attended to his lifestyle. Not too long ago, I told my son that something was amiss with his uncle, because again I saw the pain in his eyes.

‘Superman’ is no more. How else does one describe someone who survives so much trauma as a human being? Not only was he prejudiced as a black man, but because he believed in something that others did not like. He was despised and demonised not only because his mere being was antithetical to certain stereotypes. His being openly gay condemned him among the very people who needed him when they sought election to ANC positions. He was prejudiced even after the 2007 provincial conference when little known girlfriends were given a strategic assignment in committees of the NW, ANC, all because, being gay condemned him to the margins of society, at least in the eyes of those who are God’s first-borns.

Let us make known to all and sundry, that ‘Superman’ is no more. That each man and woman carry the responsibility for their destiny and that of their children. That Superman will no longer rescue them from the laziness and ineptitudes of highly paid public servants. That from that fateful day, the 2nd December 2018, that their fate rest entirely on their shoulders for the gods have destined that Superman has run his race.

To God, Allah and the gods of our forefathers, we commit the spirit of a warrior whose body bears the scars of resistance. On the 9th of December 2018, we will lay to rest the remains of Goitsemang Mosiane’s Superman, to whom we take our hats in the hour of his bravery. ‘Fate’, again, has its way. The best last thing to say, whereas others live and ape others, Thabo Glen, Mothonyana, or as they call him, the General, was simply Thabo Glen, Mothonyana, or as they call him, the General.