My Unsung African Hero

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, five shots rang out in the night air on the 11th of June 2017, piercing the head, chest and legs of Amos Ngobo, my faithful employee of the last 16 years. As his wife, Ntombi, lay choking, on the floor, almost strangled to death by the masked assailant, she watched the life drain out of her love, scarlet pools ever increasing around his body until he drew his last breath.

I've never seen a real dead body up close, especially not of someone I know so well who has been integral in my life for so long - since he was 18 and since I was only 29. I had to steel myself to watch him being wheeled out on front of me, wrapped in a thick blanket, only his bloody and disfigured face visible. I was so shaken to see those lifeless eyes staring, unseeing, into the mortuary’s uncaring lights above. A year later that moment remains etched in my mind.

The autopsy was a nightmare - the pathologist didn't extract all the bullets the first time around, but thank God they did a better job the second time so that the body could be released for the funeral, as family were traveling from far and wide on meager to no wages for the funeral.

Amos’s return home was as poignant a moment as ever -any I have ever experienced - dusk in Africa, the sun was lowering its head in honor of this gentle soul as our procession of only the hearse and my car travelled down into the Valley of a Thousand Hills, our emergency lights flashing, tick, tick, tick, the only sound I could hear above the humming of the engine and my sobs, knowing that this was his final journey home, and I was so privileged to be a part of it.

The Zulu ceremony for a violent death is, in itself, a violent one, and I hated every moment of it, the slaughtering of a goat that I unwittingly observed, and the family viewing his body one last time, the wailing and the gnashing of teeth, the pain of this loss evident all around me, as I finally stood embracing Amos’s 16 year old daughter, Mandisa, barely able to stand knowing she had seen her beloved father for the last time.

Little Amahle, Amos’s 7 year old son stood by, watching with horror in his eyes, far too young to understand the impact of what can only be described as an unparalleled and utterly senseless tragedy.

The funeral was overwhelming with more love and respect filling the tent than I have ever experienced before. A deep grave had been prepared for him beside his house, his burial being the last moment of this journey that had taken only 6 days since his death.

Yesterday I went to see Ntombi, taking cement and concrete with me to make a memorial around his grave. I stood beside Amos for a long moment looking out at his view, typically Africa, typically beautiful, the Valley of a Thousand Hills stretching before him as far as the eye could see. I know he is at peace.

But the questions remain - why and who?

It looks like we will never know. The crime scene was never preserved or processed, the evidence never preserved, Ntombi too afraid to speak, and the police too inundated to care.

The only suggestion that has been made is that through a string of the most unfortunate circumstances is that this was a case of mistaken identity.

Case closed. Welcome to my Africa.