Sandile Memela
Johannesburg - The case of the Bafana Bafana goalkeeper and captain, Senzo Meyiwa, has evoked tragic memories of the murder of my son and his wife in January 2015.
Wamukelwe and Wendy’s killing took place less than 100 days after Meyiwa was shot in the heart.
The young couple, at the height of their youth and success, were strangled to death inside the bedroom of their double-storey mansion in Bryanston.
Wamu was a multi-award winning chef and businessperson. Wendy was a high-flying corporate executive.
Five years later, police investigations have led nowhere. No one has been charged for what a neighbour described as “the most heinous crime in the history of the suburb”. The murder saw some families relocating.
The family have rarely received an SMS or a phone call to update them about developments, if any, around the case.
At the time of the tragedy, we hosted high-level delegations from the provincial and national police who paid a visit, to pledge support and a commitment to exhaustive investigations.
But that was the last time we saw them, after they held press briefings and basked in the media limelight at the gate of our home.
For the first time in the pretrial briefing by the Minister of Police, Bheki Cele, and the National Commissioner, Khehla Sitole, I learnt to understand that their case falls into the category of so-called “cold cases”.
I now understand that the pursuit of law and justice is a dangerous place to visit.
It offers itself as a place of hope, safety and security. Nevertheless, at the same time, it is as treacherous as the betrayal of a people’s dream of a free, just and equal society.
It was traumatic and painful to listen to the laments of Meyiwa’s mother.
It was a burden to watch a heart-wrenching TV interview where a wife, mother and African elderly woman, who has lost first her son and then her husband, bemoaned how she was abandoned and neglected by justice.
Her wails boomed across the nation to etch themselves into our minds.
Worse, she evoked the ancestral spirits to raise the restless ghosts to intervene in the face of alleged injustice and abandonment.
The young Newzroom Africa political journalist, Ziyanda Ngcobo, had ventured, inadvertently, into the hornet’s nest. She took us to a place that probably haunts thousands of families who have lost loved ones and feel abandoned, neglected and abused by the justice system.
In a country where more than 25 000 people are murdered a year, Meyiwa’s mother is not alone.
Her lamentations reminded me of who I am, and how powerless and helpless I feel before police officers who do not do their work.
Something intangible seared my heart when I learnt that there is now a special unit for “cold cases”. I wanted to know how we got here.
Now I see the indifference of the law and justice system toward ordinary folk. It was no surprise to hear Meyiwa’s mother’s constant refrain: “We are treated this way because we have no money, are poor people.”
Ordinary folks seem to have only this specific explanation for themselves.
It is a realisation that begins to overwhelm you, suffocates your spirit. You are helpless, so you sink into hopelessness.
I looked back to the double murder, and the image of Lady Justice began to tarnish and tear in my mind.
I tried to hold on to hope, but it refused to sparkle and glow. I realised that if I were not careful in my perception of justice, this hypnotic cloud would suck me into a vortex of disillusion, anger and resentment.
I have been to the past where law and justice have brutalised my memory many times before.
My first-born son, Wamu, used to take me there when he was growing up. For example, he was involved in a drunken-driving car accident that broke his thigh and affected his hip.
The culprit disappeared into the night. Worse, the police bungled the case. Nothing came of it because police at the scene could not capture the correct details of the culprit.
This evoked the memory of police failure due to apparent lack of capacity and skill.
Above that, there seems to be no political will. It was easy to be harsh, angry and disappointed at the turn of events.
For me, the agony and trauma of Meyiwa’s mother was familiar. It was what we have learnt to live with.
I found myself searching for more scenes of his encounter with crime and the law in his younger days. There was the incident of his mugging, where a smart cellphone and wallet was taken from him. They spared his life.
When he told me about the crime, he saw no point in opening a case. Nothing would come of it. He felt there was no justice.
This hope and faith in a just and equal society has turned into ashes and ruin. Nothing was what we had hoped it would be in a free and democratic society that would, primarily, uphold African dignity.
Above all, treat life as sacred, an inalienable right, irrespective of your race, class, creed or station in life.
All this has been slowly crumbling away while he was alive. One could see the optimism of an idealistic young man, born in 1986, turn into despair. He would look at me with eyes that asked: “What happened to the much-vaunted justice, justice and justice for all?”
The Meyiwa case has ripped open the reminder, pain and agony I thought I had buried. The self-resignation and forgetfulness I thought would one-day turn into joy have not washed away the memory of abandonment and neglect.
The happy image of the last weekend we spent together has begun to fade.
It was a lovely summer afternoon in January, where we discussed our dreams and visions to contribute to consciousness-raising activities in the country. He smiled when he spoke about his dreams to host the largest food-tasting festival at a stadium. His eyes told me that he did not believe it was impossible.
However, all this was cut down when thugs broke into his home late at night. A verbal scuffle with his Malawian gardener in the afternoon preceded the heinous crime.
He called the police to evacuate a threatening and defiant live-in employee. There was tension in the air.
On the same night, there was a break-in. His chest was battered and bruised after he was repeatedly assaulted with garden tools. A spade cracked his skull. They fastened his hands, and they broke him down. With a deep gash in his head and weak, they dragged him to his bedroom to lie on the floor next to his abused wife.
When we arrived at the scene, the police advised the family against seeing their bodies. The forensic team said it was “the most horrible sight”. They said what had been done should not be seen. It would torment and torture one forever.
All these images flooded my mind. I could relate and identify with the wailing of Meyiwa’s mother. The pain was from what happened exactly six years ago, just 100 days before my first-born son and his wife were murdered.
The pain and agony of half-a-decade ago have been revived, ghosts raised from the dead. The cry of a mourning mother and wife reverberated in my heart. It hurt.
The joy and happiness we had felt when we attained our freedom in 1994 has been ground exceedingly fine into nothingness by the wheels of justice.
I felt tears well in my eyes and swallowed a lump of pain in my throat.
I looked at Meyiwa’s mother. Her anguished face was that of Wamu’s mother, Wendy’s mother.
There was a frozen moment, where she screamed like a possessed woman, evoking the spirits of the dearly departed. I was haunted and pained by that scream.
I knew what it meant. I knew I had to lay the ghosts to rest by retelling their ghastly story to remind the police of yet another “cold case”.
I sat, mesmerised, watching the interview, later the court drama. I shook my head. There must be justice for all. There can be no peace without justice.
* Sandile Memela is a writer and public servant and writes in his personal capacity.
** The views expressed here are not necessarily those of Independent Media.