My mom had this friend in university called stanza bopape he was an active part of the struggle.
She tells me the national party government cut him and two and threw him down a well and I tear up.
It's not the first time she tells me this story. Every time I tear up. Sometimes on the way to school I drive past a street named after him and I start to think... What if he was still alive? What would he have named his children? Would I even know his children?
To put this in context I don't know him. I have never met him. All I know is stanza bopape street and my mothers stories. But somehow I feel robbed... If he was still alive I could have listened to his stories. Stories I'd like to hear. About how they burned the banned books in fear that the impimpi's would report them. I just really don't know why his lack of existence in current times bothers me so much but it does. Every single time my mother refers to him I tear up and it's she doesn't even say it in an affectionate way but I cry. Stanza died for me to be free and I don't even know what free means... It constantly haunts me! This feeling of you're not doing enough to thank him. I don't know why I tear up at the mention of his name but it gets me so sad... Is this what he had in mind in detention? Me going to a school with white people who constantly deny their privilege? I wish he could tell me... But they cut him in half and threw him down a well.
