KGAUGELO GUMEDE | Robala ka kgotso Olorato Mongale

This week my heart is heavy. I am battling a ruthless, silencing kind of shock that befell me and my fellow sisters when we heard about the death of Uyinene Mrwetyana in 2019. It cripples you, scares you and humbles you. Learning about the death of my friend, age-mate and former colleague Olorato Mongale has brought a whole new level of fear for my life as a woman in this country. I kept hoping it was fake news, that they had the wrong name, and all I could do was cry.

My mind raced to a poem by British writer and poet Warsan Shire:

“later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.”

We met as interns, you were the video girl and I the writer. We were a team that navigated the chaos of headlines, you used to boost my confidence when I would run into awkward first impressions, and we had many laughs in the few months you worked at TimesLIVE before leaving for greener pastures. I remember when we went to interview Mzwanele Manyi, and the little intern in me was intimidated when we walked into that hotel, but you held space for me and pep-talked me out of that silly feeling. I interviewed with you by my side, with you holding the camera and me the pen.

I will never forget our short walks to Rosebank Mall during our lunchtime. How smart you always sounded, how feisty and confident you were. You always stood out, Olo, you were brilliant, and in you I saw an activist. You had a fire about you, a soft touch and a sharp mind. You had clarity of thought, something I enjoyed most about you. You also liked finer things in life. Laughed in a way that made others feel like everything would be OK. You taught me ambition doesn’t have to wear a mean face.

I am sorry he did that to you. I am sorry I find myself writing about you with tears rolling down my face. I apologise, my sweet girl, that this world was so cruel to you. I looked forward to your work. Looked forward to seeing you rewrite the rules, challenge the system and build a life with purpose.

But just like that, you are gone.

What was your crime? What wrong could you have done to be reduced to a gender-based violence headline? What sick punishment is this?

From what we know, all you did was meet a man online, show up, and within two hours your light was stolen from you, from us. You sent that live location to your friends, hoping it would add a layer of safety, but all it did was ensure your body is found. You are all of us: we share locations, keep our recorders handy, hold on to our bags, walk with pepper sprays, give out our contact details to men with the fear rejection might lead to violence. We negotiate our safety even in our homes. Olo, I am sad that you made an effort to be safe, but in this country, all safety is a rumour.

You deserved so much better.

You lived up to your name, my dear girl, you were love. We never took a selfie together, perhaps I thought you would always be around...

You mattered. You will always matter.

Rest gently, dear one. We will not forget.

If I were to run my fingers across the South African map and ask, “where am I safe?” as a woman, it would say “nowhere, nowhere, nowhere…”. No matter how much precaution you take, a South African woman lives with her heart stuck in her throat in constant fear because not even our homes are safe.

For opinion and analysis consideration, email Opinions@timeslive.co.za