On Saturday, we will lay Bongani Mayosi, the Cape Town medical professor who died last Friday, to rest. So much has been written and said about his scientific and intellectual achievements, and very little about him as a family man.
Mayosi was married to Nonhlanhla, the daughter of my brother, Professor Mzilikazi Khumalo. So, Bongani was our mkhwenyana (son-in-law). He loved the Khumalos, and in spite of his numerous trips abroad, he’d make time to be with us.
A simple-looking young man he was; one who carried himself with ease and grace in the company of the high and mighty, as well as with ordinary folks. He was a man who preferred wearing a blazer, and kept to the same hairstyle for as long as I have known him, which is almost three decades.
I first met him in the late 1980s, the year he and Nonhlanhla completed their university studies at the Wentworth Medical School in Durban. This was at the height of the United Democratic Front reign.
Being a vocal supporter of the UDF, Bongani and I would often have heated political discussions - him pushing the ANC ideology, and me the Black Consciousness line. We would argue passionately, and later he’d relent out of respect for me as an elder in the family.
In retrospect, most of the time, neither of us was right. As far as I know, he was still a staunch ANC supporter up to his dying days.
He had a big heart, and was very accommodating. Once spending some time in London I decided to pay them a visit in Oxford, where he was studying. For some inexplicable reason, instead of going to Oxford I went to Cambridge University. I arrived in Cambridge early in the evening and called them.
When Nonhlanhla asked me to describe to her where I was, she realised I was hopelessly lost. She told me to sit tight and wait for Bongani, who would come and get me. I told her not to worry, that I would book into a hotel and proceed to Oxford the next morning. Nonhlanhla told me Bongani would have none of that, and that he was already on his way.
When he found me, he simply asked me if I needed a bite or something to drink. There was no mention or reference to my dumbness as we drove in the middle of the night. Instead, he was the jovial Bongani I knew, engaging in political discussion. We arrived in Oxford in the early hours of the morning.
Bongani was at home in any company, and would contribute wisely to whatever discussion held at the table. He was at ease in the city, as well as in the township among “clevers”. He was equally comfortable in rural areas; I can attest to that because we have shared with him meals consisting of meat roasted on an open fire on the floor at my family homestead in Hlabisa, KwaZulu-Natal.
His home was a sanctuary for many people - particularly young people, friends of his daughters Nosipho, Vuyi and Gugu, whom he dearly called obhabha when they were toddlers. Not so long ago, a few of these friends were spending time at the Mayosi home preparing for Vuyi’s wedding.
Naturally, their discussions veered to reminiscing about the past. The hilarious part of their recollection was to describe how Uncle Bongani would make fun of what they viewed as challenges. “He used to laugh at me when I told him I was struggling with maths,” said Nomabhongo.
His relationship with his wife was something. One had to witness them together to understand the depth of their love and their admiration for each other.
They loved each other without being lovey-dovey. One felt the love, particularly when they were engaged in a conversation or when Nonhlanhla would be describing something, and Bongani concurring, “yes, yes, yes, yes”. These yeses would roll out of his mouth fast and furiously, accompanied by a smile displaying even, whiter-than-white teeth.
Unlike most young, married couples who call each other “babes” or some such fashionable salutation, Nonhlanhla called him “Bongs”, and he simply called her Nhlanhla. Highly educated as he was, Bongani was somehow still rooted in his traditions. He would fondly refer to her as mfazi, yet most so-called sophisticated people dislike that word, arguing it’s uncouth.
They prefer nkosikazi. Bongani would say: “Ndiyondla mfazi (I am able to look after you). For every year that we’ve been married, you have gained two kilos,” teasing Nonhlanhla about the weight she had put on.
Bongani joins his physician father George Mayosi, who died in 1993, and his aunt Nontuthuzelo Mbuli, a woman who loved his brothers’ children unreservedly (she was their anchor during their university days in Durban).
He will meet his brother Thabo, who lived life to the full, and died in an accident. I can see Thabo welcome him wearing the Mayosi smile. I hear him asking him, as only Thabo could: “What took you so long?”
Later, he’ll meet my mom, who’ll ask him: “What are you doing here? Where is my granddaughter?” I see him adjust the frame of his spectacles, smiles at mom, reassure her that Nonhlanhla and the girls are safe, and that he will always be with them, as well as with all the members of the Mayosi clan, the people who raised and shaped his life.
That he will not forget the Khumalos, who loved him like their own son. That he will always watch over the UCT students who looked up to him for solutions, and the many doctors whom he opened doors for, enabling them to specialise in various medical fields.
And last but not least, there is his mother Mamaduna, who is fondly referred to by all and sundry as “Magogo”. May she forever feel her son’s presence.
Lala ngoxolo, Radebe!
* Mathiane is a veteran journalist and author who has worked for most major South African newspapers