Gabrielle Goliath

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Elegy - Joan Thabeng
Tribute by Phodiso Aphane

I would love South Africans or African people to remember Joan as a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful transgender woman, who was living her life with no limit. She was a God-fearing man… She liked to celebrate life, and other people’s lives, because she knew that life was worth celebrating, because she lived her life with no limits. Joan was a very, very special person, a good-hearted person, who normally sympathised with others…always willing to give others a second chance. I would classify her under God, as a Goddess, you would keep her in your family. 

Joan’s passing was a shock to us, because we didn’t understand why. It was the first hate-crime in our community. We wanted answers. We wanted to know the reason why? Because we knew the perpetrator, we knew the person who did it, but the reasons, I will never know, but the man I am talking about is still walking free today in the streets, the man who has been living as a rapist all his life…he is even known by the name in our culture of one who rapes other men, women and children: mantanyola. It means one who is dangerous… And he is still in our community, because of the police not serving us, as they should. 

We used to call her ‘mama’, because each and everything we needed, she knew. Remember, we’re talking about a gay man – she knew when it was time for each one of the girls to have their period, and she always made certain that they had toiletries, so she was a very special, special person. She fitted everywhere, from father-figure to mother-figure. So it’s very difficult for us to accept that Joan is gone, and it’s not going to be easy when we see the perpetrator’s family, because it makes us think of revenge; but because we fear God, and because we do not want to remember Joan that way. Joan was like a flower to us, we couldn’t go back and kill in her name. She was even scared of her own blood, if we kill this person, her soul will not be set free. We are deeply hurt, and I am deeply cut, I don’t want to tell you lies… After I lost my mother, I never felt such pain, but I think the loss of Joan has been worse than my mother, because I didn’t know my mother that well. Joan was part of my gay life, and for me, identifying as a polygamous lesbian male, this was so important… 

I don’t know if I could talk about her death, but if you allowed me, I could talk about how we found Joan on the street? Half naked, her clothes were torn; cell phone, wallet and keys were stolen. It looked like a car accident, because she was covered in dirt. You could see that the person who killed her rolled her body over and over again in the soil to make it look as though she had been hit by a car. Joan wasn’t hit by a car, she’d been strangled and thrown out into the street. At 4am in the morning people started to run and shout, ‘A gay man has been found dead!’ You know, the painful part is that I’d seen her just the day before – we were together at a wedding. The next I heard she was dead. 

The way we found her has deeply traumatised her mother. Whenever she sees a lesbian or gay person, she cries. She often calls me and says, “I dream about her walking back into the house, but then I realise that she is never coming back. They took my baby away. Why didn’t they leave her to breathe for me?”. Joan was a mother figure to everybody, to the community, to us, and to the family… When it hit the paper, “Joan Thabeng Killed”, I was still in denial about her death, even though I was present when the coroner picked up her body. Even after we’d travelled to her hometown, and performed the ceremony and rituals, I still did not believe that Joan was dead. After my mom, it was another pain… The pain of losing someone like that is not easy to recover from.

Elegy - Sizakele Sigasa & Salome Masooa
Tribute by Khumo Modisane

I make a wish every day, still pray that this world could be a safer place for LGBTQI people. I mean after all, we are no different from anyone else. 

I find myself breathing heavily as I recall the day I learnt of the passing of two of my close friends, Sizakele Sigasa and Salome Masooa. 07/07/07 has become a date that carries tragic memories, loss of two lovely people that I loved.  I remember instantly being disappointed in mankind, how could this be real? As the tears flooded my eyes, I recall mentally questioning the society that we live amongst. I remember wondering if this was the liberation and freedom our fathers and grandfathers fought so hard for.

We have grown to learn that friends are the family we choose. Siza and Salome became my family. There is so much to say about Siza and Salome, other than sharing the fact that they enjoyed life, they had a lot to live for. They lead positive vibrant lives and meant a lot to those close to them.

Siza was a hard worker, very independent person and dedicated a lot of her time in what she loved and believed in. She never relied on others for anything. I guess that was her way of avoiding the disappointment that comes with dependence. Siza was strict in a way. If someone she cared for wanted to behave like a derailed train, she was the perfect person to put them back in line. The way that she managed to succeed in that process was through guidance and the fact that we as her friends knew she was a no nonsense type of person. I always knew that her guidance, regardless of how harsh it may have seemed, came from a place of honesty and love. We as her friends knew we could rely on her for positive substantial advice. She had the best form of verbal discipline.  

Salome was very very protective. She became some form of a shield as in; she was ready and prepared to protect you regardless of the situation. If you were out with her and you encountered and altercation with someone, Salome would be there ready to defend and protect. Being a protector was her nature.  Some people could have easily mistaken her protective nature for bullying and it was nowhere near it at all. The love that she had for her friends is what drove her into protection mode. 

Having had Siza and Salome as my chosen family members and having lost them has not only left a dent in my heart, but a space that can never be filled. I still can’t make sense of how could two lovely people like them have their lives end in this senseless manner. I guess one could be comforted by the fact that they passed away together but it still doesn’t make it easy at all.

Elegy - Noluvo Swelindawo
Tribute by Gabrielle Goliath

Noluvo 'Vovo' Swelindawo lived courageously and loved courageously. As an openly lesbian couple, Noluvo and Nqabisa Mkatali lived together in Driftsands, near Khayelitsha, and despite their ‘difference’ were welcomed by many in the community. But not all. 

On Friday the 2nd of December, 2016, Noluvo was assaulted by Sigcine Mdani, who stamped on her head and repeatedly kicked her in the face. The following day, Noluvo was abducted from her home and murdered by Sigcine Mdani. Her body was found on Sunday the 3rd, dumped near the N2 highway. Nqabisa was also attacked and threatened, and following the murder of her partner was forced into hiding for a period.

Sigcine Mdani was sentenced to 18 years imprisonment, with Western Cape High Court Judge Derek Wille acknowledging that Noluvo was a victim not only of misogyny and femicide, but of gross intolerance - which is to say, of queerphobia.

In preparing for the ICA Live Art Festival, 2017, it was my hope to present an Elegy performance in commemoration of Noluvo. The investment of the festival in the city of Cape Town was a strong motivation for this, as a platform through which to enact an urgent, local and collective gesture of mourning. How do we begin to account for such loss? Not any loss, not loss in general, not loss as a statistical mean, but loss as particular, as the absent presence of a living body, a life lived, of love shared, of Noluvo Swelindawo?

How do we inhabit such loss? How do we sustain relational connection, emotional, ethical, spiritual investment? How do we show a solidarity that is other to the masked deflection of shared complicity and historical bearing that so regularly attends (and disavows) the work of commemoration? And how do we enact refusal? Refusal of the violence that seeks to erase black, brown, feminine and queer bodies. Refusal of the ‘normalcy’ that is patriarchy’s everyday, through which survivor narratives are routinely discredited and victims’ lives marked as politically inconsequential and humanly ungrievable. It is here, I believe, that collective mourning performs a deeply political work - a work of community, care and the insistent recognition (and yes celebration) of feminine life. 

Nqabisa was present that night – present to the performance, and in the sustained cry the performers held over the course of an hour, present to the absence of her beloved Noluvo. Nqabisa’s own cry was loud, piercing, heart-breaking, soul-splitting, and, in that moment, the only tribute she felt able to share.

Elegy - Hannah Cornelius
A love letter to Hannah, by Anna & Willem Cornelius

Our dearest Hannah,

Mother Teresa said the following:  some people come into your life as blessings.  Some people come into your life as lessons.  We could not ask for a greater blessing. You were with us on this earth for 21 years leading a real life. During your earthly life and now and forever you remain an inspiration to all people.

You had the most amazing smile that uplifted all who had contact with you.  You spread love everywhere you went. Having had an encounter with you people recalled such meetings with happiness, love and a lightness of spirit.  Your courage, beauty, brilliance, humility and above all your love for life in any form will stay your legacy forever.

Your curious and pioneering spirit was not driven by materialistic and egoistic interest, but by your desire to find a place in this world to promote love and peace to all.  Your values of courage, love, forgiveness and help for others will inspire generations of youngsters that will follow your example. We are so grateful that God used us to bring you into this world as a star that will sparkle all over this world forever.

We will ensure the values you stood for will be a lesson for all the young people who have lost their way or need guidance. You only had 21 years to learn the most valuable lessons in life and you made these values your guiding principles. Your message was your life and your life was your message.  A message that will outlive   all superficial and materialistic values. The words of Martin Luther King Junior could have been yours:

“Returning hate for hate multiplies hate adding deeper darkness  to a night already devoid of stars.  Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

Throughout your life whether it was at school, the times that you spent abroad, and at university, your guiding principle was to help others to spread love. In order for you to be able to carry on spreading love you realized that you can only spread love when you love yourself. When you experienced difficult times in your life you immediately faced your own personal pain, worked as hard as you possibly could, in a brave manner to deal with your own demons. At the time that you left this earth you came full circle and realized that the only peace that you need was already in your heart.   Peace that was united with the source of all life. This you intended to spread all over the world. You told us that you only wanted peace in yourself and to be able to help other people. We will now dedicate the rest of our lives to fulfil your wish to help other people. There are so many youngsters in our area that need guidance and  who need to be able to know what life is about, really about, that there is a future of hope.

Mamma and Pappa will use your legacy and your inspiring life to shine light into the darkness. That light will sparkle: Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.

Elegy - Kagiso Maema
Tribute by Mrs Wilhelmina Maema

Let me first and foremost personally commemorate my Queen Kagiso Isamael Maema. She was beautiful, smart, and had a brilliant brain. She was a very proactive person when it came to listening, which is a sensitive art and skill. When Kagiso entered a room, society felt her presence; she was a drama Queen, a dancer and an entertainer. Kagiso admired everything and everybody, and was a very special part of the Maema family – she was active in cleaning at home, and liked going out with friends.

She was studying information technology, and was always happy to assist community members with their technological needs: radio, TV, cell phones, and all the rest. She was friendly, committed and self-confident. She didn’t care about whether people called her by derogatory names, she was so proud about the way she was.

What was beautiful to her was having fun with her friends, with good music, dancing and singing. She was a star, and her life was a gentle melody.

My Queen Kagiso Maema, you were the most intelligent and important person in my life. You have gone too soon, but I still remember you with good things. You may have done bad things in your life, but you were good to me as a daughter. You put a smile on my face, and you were like a flower growing in a secret place, and the sunshine of my life.

Kagiso Maema, I will never forget you my child. Now I, and society, must struggle alone with our technology.

May your precious soul rest in peace.

We will always remember you.

Elegy - Lerato ‘Tambai’ Moloi
Tribute by Zandile Motsoeneng

To my darling Lerato Tambai,

How it saddens me to write about you when you are no longer with us, how am I supposed to write about your smile, never mind your laugh?

Dear cousin of mine, I am sorry, so sorry I wasn’t there on that fateful night, I sleep with regret every night knowing how those monsters assaulted you, took your dignity and right to live. They acted as God and made decisions that not only af­fected you but everyone.

I recall when I got the call about your passing, I was at work, and it was from Jade my friend. She said, “Mazee Tambai (ore sile mfethu), she has passed away”. No, how could it be? I recall screaming, tears failing, because I was numb to hear the way of your passing. She said you were sexually assaulted, and that it looked as though you had been stoned. Anger filled my whole entire body, and does till today.

Ntwana (Lerato), when I think of our olden days of playing soccer in the dusty streets of Naledi, summer days when we would pour water on people returning from work, and run so fast to hide, it tears me apart. When those animals hurt you they hurt everyone. It’s no longer the same at home, aunty expects you to walk through that door every time, or when your favourite song comes on, instead of singing along as we used to, we weep. How we wish we could see you one last time, take away the pain you went through before your last breath, even grant you one wish.

I made a promise that I won’t rest until those animals rot in jail, hence I am at every court appearance outside chanting, asking for their heads. Maybe in that we will find closure. Maybe then sleeping will be normal again, and maybe then our be­loved Tambai you will rest knowing your friends, family and community members were united because of you. Where everyone saw each other as humans, and sexually did not come to play…

Till we meet again Ntwana, you are loved.

Elegy - Eunice Ntombifuthi Dube
Tribute by Thulisile Portia Dube

To my beloved Daughter/Sister Shasha

They say death comes when it comes and it is a necessary ending and that death is not the end but just another path that one has to take.

But how is death necessary and how is it just another path that one has to take when it is determined by somebody else other than God? If we were not Christians, we would be asking: where was God when that monster decided to end your life? How does one come to terms with this?

It was the morning of September 20th, 2017. At home it wasn’t just another day. It was our mother’s birthday and she was receiving birthday messages and lots of love from all who know her. She received so many calls on the day and when she received another call, she took it with a smile thinking it was another call from well-wishers as it was her birthday.

That was the call that would spoil her day and possibly her birthday for the rest of her life. The news was that her beloved Shasha has been brutally murdered. She is widowed and without a son, so she was tasked with going to face the motionless and bloodied body of her beloved Shasha.

What will September 20th be to us going forward? Our Mother’s birthday celebration? The mourning of your death? Celebration of your short lived life? Only time will tell as the wound is still very fresh on our minds and hearts.

It wasn’t just another day when news broke that you were no more. Never did we imagine that your life would end like that. Of course we knew that someday you would depart this world but not in a manner that you did or was done to you. Let alone through atrocious ways of a monster you called all sorts of sweet names: Love, Baby, etc. Little did you know that it would be the very same person that would end your life in the cruelest of ways.

Somebody might ask, why are we calling your killer a monster? The very same man that you loved and shared your life with? We have the simplest of answers: who beats someone they love to death using a hammer? Who suffocates someone they love while they are struggling to move and in excruciating pain? Only a monster would do that!!!

You were a daughter, sister, aunt and a friend to so many people and you will always be in our hearts and will continue celebrating your life.

May your soul Rest In perfect Peace Ntombifuthi Eunice Shasha Dube.

Elegy - Camron Britz
Tribute by Mrs. Bernice Britz

Camron was a unique person. She had many friends. She had lovely friends; old and young. She lived for her fellow man. She never said no when someone sent her to the shop, because in her soul she knew that she had to do it for her mother’s sake. We struggled. I do not work, because I am diabetic and cannot stand for long, but I am willing to work. Yes, she was the breadwinner in the home. Everybody relied on her, because she was this lovely person. Everybody around her loved her. You have to know that she knew if her mother sat at the bend of the river, there was again nothing at the house. Then she would say: “Don’t worry, Mommy. Why am I here?” She had an aunt named Faidah. This was a very large woman. From the age of 5, she used to visit Auntie Faidah. I have to say that that auntie loved Camron dearly. She did everything for Auntie Faidah. She would come to me with her reward and say: “Mommy this is for us, we have to eat and care for her[sic] two brothers. You can just give me R20 because I want to be with my friends so that I can also show them that I am a true daughter.” When she had a fight with her friends, she would come back home and turn to her books as usual. Then she would write about what happened out there. She loved writing poems. She started telling me that she wanted to live in her own white house one day, and that Mommy and the others couldn’t get there. Little did [we] know that she was beginning to speak of her death. She was a lovely person, inside and out. 

She had finished her confirmation. But that Saturday I took her from the house to sleep over at her eldest sister, because it was easier for me since she was close to the church. The Sunday of her confirmation, she was very restless. Our Bishop sat her down and explained to us that he had already seen the angel in Camron. But God spared her for another two months on earth. Now, on 2 July I told her: “Cammy, finish up because we are going to Long Beach Mall.” She didn’t want to get dressed and was wearing her black jeans and pink top and she put on her brother’s grey cap without brushing her hair. She was very quiet and said nothing. We went to Pick n Pay to get her toiletries, where she only took hair oil and told me: “Mommy, the toiletries are expensive, let’s go to Pep Stores.” She had a look at the prices of the toiletries and came back. I gave her the money, but she said: “Mommy, it is okay.” She became so quiet that I didn’t notice anything. When we got home, she said: “Mom, I am quickly going to Faidah.” As usual, she had breakfast with her Aunty on Saturdays. She wanted to tell the Aunty something, but couldn’t get anything out. Her Aunty knew something was bothering her and she was concerned. Then the Aunty asked: “Baby, what is wrong?”, but she only laughed. She and her friend, Kelly, who is also her cousin, were very close. They did everything together. The evening of July the 2nd, around 9 o’clock, Kelly and Cammy came in and I told her: “Cammy, not late, because tomorrow is church; we have to go and pray for the departed souls.” She said: “Yes, Mom, Kelly and I and the others are going to sit by the fire.” I then said it was okay. That evening, I suddenly felt sleepy and went to bed. Her father was watching television, but at about 3 o’clock in the early hours of the morning I woke up and asked her father: “Where did Cammy say she was going to sleep?” He then said either at Kelly or across the road at her other friend. I was worried, because she didn’t say that she was going to sleep over. I then started preparing food, because it was nagging at me. My brother came in and I told him I was worried about Cammy, because something didn’t feel right; my tummy was jittery and I couldn’t think. But at around 8 o’clock, Kelly called out: “Aunty Fonny, is Cammy ready for church?” Then I asked her: “Kelly, didn’t she sleep over at your place?” She then said “No”. Then my legs started shaking. I told Kelly to go look at her friend across the road if she didn’t sleep there. Kelly then said, from across the road, that she didn’t sleep over there. I started walking around, lamely. I started asking around all over. I sent my son, Melvino, to his sister to see if she didn’t perhaps sleep over at her place. She then came down without Cammy. I had Camron’s photo in my hand, because I was going to report her as missing. My daughter and I then went to the police station to report it, but they then said that they were going to search with us, but were unable to find her anywhere. I went to check with her other friend in the Ghoststown. She wasn’t there. I then walked to my sister, Shumaya. I told her: “Come, I have to search in the mountain”, because my heart told me that she was somewhere in the mountain. 

We then started searching in the mountain. But when the police came to get a photo of Camron from me, I came from the mountain and went with them to the police station, to make a report, because we had been searching for her all of half a day. When we got to the police station to open a missing [person’s] report (papers), my son, Melvino, came to drag me out of the police station, “Mommy, we have found Cammy, she is just across from the house, in the bushes.” I felt lame, I just couldn’t get out. When I eventually got to where the person stood, I knew that my child was dead and I just collapsed there. To think, it was just about 60 m from home. It broke my heart; my darling daughter was torn away from me. She was murdered and raped and her body was broken. I miss her, but I know that she is in her Father’s heavenly abode. I have made my peace and have forgiven the person. God has saved me from my suffering and removed my sorrow and made me His daughter, which is the reason why I can write these things about her today, because had it not been for God, would’ve been in the stillness of the grave. I praise God for His love for me and His love is never-ending. This poem, she wrote to God:

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

courage to change the [things] that I earn [sic]

and wisdom to know the difference. 

Words and ideas to change the world.

Those we love we love don’t go away.

They walk beside us every day unseen, unheard and always near, 

still loved, still missed and very dear.

Death is a heartache no-one can heal and love is a memory no-one can steal.

… Mommy, I’m sorry for this, but find my body tomorrow in my coffin.

I am tired and weak for this life; the Lord should please forgive me.

Tomorrow you’ll stand before my cross with a lot of nice things on a list.

You will be sorry for what had happened, but miss me just for tomorrow,

knowing that I am [?] crazy and out of mind as day by day I lose my strength.

Mom and Dad should understand, it is life that is catching up with me.

I stand before the church, but I am there in God’s work.

My body and blood were given, but here I again will hear.

I’ll be around by Monday, get this on Sunday,

be my Mom and Dad and I promise I won’t be bad. 

 In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life:

It goes Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all

Life is the one gift

Love is the second and understanding 

the third. He who is not every day conquering 

some fear has not learned the secret of life.

Our prime purpose in this life is to help others,

and if you can’t help them at least don’t hurt them.

A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity;

an optimist sees an opportunity in every difficulty.

(You’ve got three) You’ve only got three choices in life:

give up, give in or give it all you’ve got.

Elegy - Cornelia van Piloane
A speculative tribute by Dr. Saarah Jappie

Beloved Cornelia, we owe you an apology. How many times have we [have I?] walked past that building and neglected to remember you? To spare a thought for what happened that day. Hundreds, more likely thousands. On the way to see Adderley street light up in December. On a leisurely stroll through the Company’s Garden. Two hundred and fifty-three years of forgetting. But now we choose to begin to remember. 

Some stories come to us in great detail. In eight hundred-page biographies. Or in epics, performed by skilled dancers, that carry on through the night. Yours comes to us in eight lines. No shadow puppets or numbered volumes. Simply eight lines written in an archaic tongue that illuminate but a fraction of the life you led. They offer neither its beginning nor its end – simply a fateful, violent week that saw one life taken and yours left on the brink of death. 

All we can know of what befell you derives from the official record. From notes written by men who most likely never knew you and who were not there to witness your pain. It is mostly hearsay and speculation. Still, I will tell you what was said so that you may know and we can witness. Record CJ48 relates that on a Monday in late March you, Cornelia van Piloane, female slave of the honourable Company, attempted to end a longstanding relationship with Carel Boom van Koningsburg, porter of the Slave Lodge. In order to force you to stay with him he took a knife to your hand. You then tried to exculpate him, insisting that the wound was self-inflicted. Five days later he took a pistol to your head and then another to himself. Boom managed to take his own life but somehow failed to end yours. Not even a bullet to the head could kill you, at least not immediately. 

How long did you have to endure the pain? And who eventually found you? Cared for you? The record will not reveal these secrets. Time and again I have read through the words, between and around them, hoping for something more. Each time only questions emerge. The most resounding question of all is how you would have told your own story. Where would you choose to begin it? And what form would it take? I imagine you recounting tales in your mother tongue about the faraway Piloane [Pulau Enu? Pulau Ay?], and of your journey to the Cape. I have wondered how you would explain your romantic entanglements with a Dutchman, the chilling events of that March, and how you would have wanted your story to end.

According to the archive your story has not ended, for there was never any record of your death, Cornelia. I hope you find some solace, or at least some amusement in this. For me, this silence is a sign that your spirit was too great to be confined to someone else’s record. That your life story was too important to be reduced to ink on paper. 

May you rest in power. 

Elegy - Louisa van de Caab
A speculative tribute by Dr. Saarah Jappie

One thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. The year that Mozart premiered The Marriage of Figaro. When a devastating earthquake struck Sichuan and a hurricane hit Barbados. And the year that you left us, Louisa. Two hundred and thirty-two years before we would begin to recall you –  to remember a woman we could never entirely know. 

Record number CJ 423, like a magic spell, conjures up your story and offers it to us on a platter of tattered, yellowing pages. The swirls of faded, brown ink encode, in an impossible script, what happened that day in the Tygerberg. Or at least what they say had happened: what your mother and Stoffel saw, the violence your attackers confessed to. And, finally, the surgeon’s observations. 

I will tell you what they say happened to you. And I will wonder if you find these reports accurate. Or even surprising? It was the 20th of February. Your mother, Sanne, related [in a Malabari accent?] that it was eight o’clock in the evening. You were in the combuijs, warming water in the tea kettle, to bring to the master’s children upstairs. Ceres [did you love him?] entered and, without saying a word, [but did his eyes speak to you?] he grabbed your hand and took you outside. [What did it feel like when he grabbed your hand? Was there an urgency? A warmth?] You never returned.

Before any of this happened, there were words floating in the air. Unkind tales about you, about your character. But you know this. When Ceres came to confront you [did that feel like a betrayal?], they say you questioned the accusations, and then the accuser. Perhaps your questions proved too bold, for in the absence of a verbal response to your retorts he took your life and fled. 

How would your mother have felt, finding you hours later between the house and the chicken coop? Bent over as if dead. I tried to listen with my eyes, to grasp the pain in her statement. In desperation I foolishly read it aloud, and still the Official Record spat back only facts. Dates, names, times. The trajectory of the knife as it cut through you and took your life – a life of which we will only ever know one brutal, last moment.  

Yet, I would argue, the power lies in the fact that now we actually know. And so we can begin to remember. The 20thof every February will be marked by your absence for me, Louisa. The Tygerberg will resound with your name, and that of your grieving mother. And now that I’m aware, I also realise what I can’t know but still wonder about you. And so I ask: could you have seen any of this coming? What were your final thoughts? Did you ever dream of your mother’s Malabar? What used to make you smile? And did you ever feel free?

May you rest in peace, dear Louisa.