If I were to tell you something about 15 January, I would say on the day 10 years ago, I woke up to the tragic news that my eldest son was brutally murdered at his home in Bryanston.
He was 29 years old and would be 39 in April this year. It was not enough for the thugs to just kill him alone. They murdered his wife too. The young couple was strangled to death with electrical chords and wires in the most secured and safe suburb in Sandton.
I will tell you that they planned to celebrate their wedding that December, 2015. These dreams were shattered by a violent and tragic manner of death. The pathologist on the scene told me it was a sight too ghastly to contemplate. Thus, she advised me to not go upstairs to look at the scene.
I have to tell you that in 10 years, nothing has happened to the case. No detective or investigator or a senior member of the SAPS have been in touch with us. In fact, we have established through the grapevine and the sensational media that this is one of over 18,000 cases that have been declared "cold cases."
This reckless admission by the police means nothing more can be done about the case. The State has just dismissed over 18,000 murders, of mostly black people, as unworthy of further investigation. Thus, Wamu and Wendy's double tragedy is not one in a million cases. It is a million cases in one. This is what it means to have a beloved brutally murdered in this country. No one cares. The police will close it as a cold case.
But over the last 10 years, I have not allowed this murder, theft and rape case to make me bitter. I have learned to restrain my anger. It does not mean that I have forgotten or forgiven the culprits or the State. I do not want the lack of justice and compassion in this country to make me cold and indifferent or make me a bitter person. They were both murdered because an illegal tenant did not want to leave their premises as requested.
It is hard sometimes. You wake up, tossing and turning and breaking into a sweat. But we keep on smiling and wake up to do what we must do. Over the years, I used the former Bafana Bafana goalkeeper Senzo Meyiwa's case to measure the reach and effectiveness of justice in this country. I watched his late mother and father speak to journalists about their trauma and pain. Nothing has come of that. Both parents got tired and died of waiting. The law is an ass. Its wheels grind slowly.
And one appreciates that magistrates, prosecutors, lawyers, police investigators and clerks are overwhelmed. Murder, rape and robberies are a way of life in South Africa. It is a culture now to be criminal… and get away with murder.
Wamukelwe Memela and his wife Wendy Campbell were murdered in Bryanston 10 years ago.
It is sad to tell you that it was the brutal murder of these young people that made me somewhat lose faith and hope in both justice and death. The former, that is justice, demands patience. I accept that it is too slow. But death should not be proud.
Over the decade, I have witnessed countless cases and attended funerals of numerous of family and friends, some whom died through violent crime. Death, the fate of every man, woman and child, must not be proud. I must tell you that I am not indifferent to death, per se. It does not scare me. But death is not the end. It does not matter how you died at the end.
What is important to recognise is that the dead are not dead. They transmogrify into spirits. We, too, the living who must die one day, are spirits.
I know there are a lot of things that hurt and break our souls. They can drive us to turn into bad people; to seek revenge in whatever way. This is what the premature death of our loved ones can do; turn us into uncaring devils. But this violence and death that rules this country cannot be allowed to take away our humanity in an inhuman world. We know now that hell is empty and all the devils are here.
We hold onto and will cherish their memories. They are guardian spirits, now. And no devils will take their place. Not even death can suffocate their memories. My eldest son and his wife were murdered in this country. It has become a country that no man can enjoy. We the living people are deeply wounded. Yes, it hurts.
The late award-winning chef Wamukelwe Memela would be turning 39 in April 2025.
I cannot change the fact that you can be murdered in your own home for no good reason. Homes have become prisons, now, where we barricade ourselves and tremble at the sound of an alarm. When violence and murder reign supreme, it does not mean I accept this brutality as normal.
The thing is the State run by the ANC—and others—has long failed to protect us and to make us feel safe in our homes. The Freedom Charter promised security, safety and comfort. This ideal and principle was betrayed before 1994. Thus, it remains a pipe dream. Instead, crime has become worse. Alas, we have no place to hide.
Much as I have or try to let this go, to make the memory to fade, it hangs around my neck like an albatross. But I cannot let the pain from my pain and trauma to define my life. One has learned to take it in our stride. They say misfortune can only make you stronger. It builds inner resilience. But a double murder in one night is just too much.
I am not what has been done to my family. I will not allow this country to soil my spirits or defile my soul. The politicians and the police pretend to not know how this matter of unending series of theft and rape and robbery cases make us feel. They shrug their shoulders in indifference. They have written too many reports and see too much death. This callousness hurts. But I will heal. This nation will heal itself.
Remember, the broken bones of the dead may be buried, but their spirits live. Their bones will rise from the graves to walk this land.
The dead are not dead. My son and my daughter-in-law live in me. Their tragic death is part of what makes me who I am.
#Conviction
