Chris Van Wyk - A
giant of our times
 |
| The late Chris Van Wyk - Shinning Light of Words |
My mind, rewinds to the endearing episodic periods
of a life that once was, and, will forever be in our minds. Minds of both young
and old, (men and women) who once travelled, trampled, traversed and treaded
upon earth mother, as if they were immortal being.
Whether these individuals were known or unknown
to me it’s inconsequential. In my case, whenever news of anybody's demise reach
me.
A child in me weep uncontrollable with part of
him dying and joining a departed soul on their last journey under the gaze of
the sun. Such is life!
In short, the pain of losing a loved one or
someone closest to me is a pain which jolt mixed emotion in my system. Because,
pain of dealing with grief of one dearest, in any family, is pain of loss felt
by the entire family of humanity within my circles.
Many people, who pass, touch us individually in
different ways. They leave finger prints of love, laughter, leadership and
leading lessons with us. Some leave light which illuminates one’s life for a
lifetime.
In order for humanity to look back at the
beautiful testaments of the departed, they need to reconnect with the scrolls
of loved ones, whose life signature connects us instantaneously with the rich
heartfelt lessons and legacy left us to savoir
.
In life, a mirror of one’s lifespan hang before
our own eyes, with its inverse image capturing a face of death. Such a sad
reflection paralyses and leaves deep severe scars which may not heal even with
the passage of time.
For if you walk within the shadow of the living,
you walk not far away within the shadow of the lifeless. As such, it measures
that, death of any anybody is death too close to home.
For instance, where there was one dearest, to one’s
heart, and such a dear soul is snatched away, disappearing within a wink of an
eye from the face of earth mother, such surrender changed the cause of history.
As such the fresh air you once breathe with them,
the environment you once shared together becomes mist over and, eventually your
time like those you once admire will eventually run empty and be exhausted. One day, in the same way you rest your fellow travelers. The bell will toll for you, and everybody during the time the
season of sombre chime "Time's Up!"
In a manner of accepting the inevitable, one accepts
reluctantly an argument advanced which proclaims: mortal remains of our loved
ones, upon transcending to the world of the dead is heeded for a better place.
To be reunited with their kin and kith, in order
to be rested on the arable bosom of the Mighty Higher Being and live happily
after.
And, one is led to believe, albeit religiously a
perpetually sold genesis passed from one generation to the next which
constructively set one’s mind at bay, and make you look forward to the day when
they heavens issue you with a your one way ticket to home away from home.
And, vow by a conveniently convincing conceived
tagline which puts it succinctly. One who was and is now no longer, would
henceforth come only through dreams to pay visitations and disappear without
giving much in terms of where they are.
This we are led to believe is the one and the
only available route taking us to the afterlife. Mysteries of all mysteries in
instances after going through an agonizing bereavement we are console and
assured our beloved ones are destined to reside in eternal bliss.
Where there's prospect for posterity and
possibility for prosperity, with no punishment, poverty, pain or pang. Those left behind, stand at the crossroad, in
an empty world filled with stories telling them those who left are now resident
of a holy land where they will be housed in heavenly homes coated with gold.
At times, when grief cast its shadow on a pathway
of family of humanity a commonplace response in a child in me, is to confronts
paternal and maternal omnipotent beings to search for convincing answers.
The mourning baby in my heart would want to know,
matter -of -fact ‘what's the reason for living, if we are going to die?’ This
child never ceases to ask simple yet unanswered questions, which keeps popping
up, in the event of every death.
It inquires, and wishes to know why we die? As
if, it has answers why we are born save for somewhat (un)convincing theories,
advanced from scientific perspective, spiritual realm including cultural and
religious belief systems.
These ambiguous yet mystical believable truth or
fictions, however smartly packaged, bring with it an unbearable and burdensome
illusion like death itself.
Quite interesting, this line of thought is at the
heart of one’s existential. All times this rechauffé is push down ones throat
allowing no space to challenge.
Somehow, death is in need of redemption! How it
operates is as unpredictable as its sting. Sometimes, I wish to buy in the
tired cliche propagating that, when ones name is called ones crown awaits you
on the other side.
However, in my case I want to begrudgingly accept
what the world feeds me. And, stop questioning the dictates of the natural
progression of earthly explanations.
It is worth acknowledging and accepting a call
from the ancestral world means what it really means that you are no more.
Perhaps, when one answered at whatever cost the call, they would have no
misgivings.
However, each time I do surrender to the whims of
some teaching without any reservations. A child in me wants to understand, why
if we made from the soil must we go back to the source which is the soil and
disintegrate to nothingness.
Why is eternity not on earth, because those we
live with who become our friends and family impact on our own lives and leave a
lasting legacy when the curtain of their performance is pulled down and come to
an end.
Leaving us the more poorer and paralyze for
life, yearning for their wisdom, which is gone forever. In the event of death,
unfortunately, whether one take to the streets, carrying placards with all
sorts of demeaning slogans challenging and castigating death.
Nothing is likely to change. Death, but, like a
tyrant keep inflicting pains to humanity electing to keep a blind eye to heart
wrecking scream, and leaving a bad taste in the mouth.
In the wake of its appearance, death ignores any
plea for clemency. No matter how disparaging one writes about death one thing
is for certain, death keeps on driving nails of sadness in one’s heart.
There's nothing in life which compares to the
sorrow one feels on receiving the news of death. Whenever, death takes over the
reign, even the pain of losing a lover seem lighter.
Because those who leave us behind, will never
even once become a part of us again going forward they live in spirit. In
reality, death is as acute as a tsunami which leaves destruction.
Death targets those we can ill afford to lose. In
the event of death, death pierces permanent incision on ones psyche.
Death like a callous volcanic phenomenon leaves
indelible marks. If I were to write to death, I would run out of surreal words
to describe it.
It is not my intention to either condemn or
celebrate death, because in deaths language tomorrow if it’s not my turn, is
going to be somebody I know, until it touches me.
Yeah, no matter how one interrogates and ponder
the real meaning for death's existence. You end up walking on a wobbling tight
rope.
One always, like the sun rising from East and
setting from West, remains in limbo wherever trying to make sense of why death
leaves a permanent stain on our unsoiled fabric.
It's a foregone conclusion that from the
beginning of time. Death's seasons scoop septic wounds in our system.
Death can never be said to be like a familiar
winters which brings biting cold but we always look forward to embrace.
Death is never compared to the caressing summer's
days which bring sweltering heat and soothing sun rays but leaves us looking
forward to tomorrow.
Death on the one hand, whenever it rears its
head, the beautiful and bright light of sunny summer days turns into gloom
days.
Death on another hand, wherever it knock on the
door, its intoxicating waves of doom turns the biting cold days into
colourless.
Death like someone watching life in slow motion eats
on those who play host resolutely like cancer and leave them daze for the rest
of their lives.
Death, now and then keep on reminding me humans
that respect for humanity is non-existent to compare death to a bully is an
understatement. Maybe at this point it’s worth asking.
Who are you? What are you made off? Where do you
hide? Why target humanity? When are you rested? When exactly are we to be
desensitised to your yoke? How do we deal with the aftermath of your
visitation?
At times I wish to buy in, in the hypothesis that
nothing is forever. But, you, know as I know that you death on the one hand you
are an unfair player in this game called life.
Like surreptitious snake with an insatiable
appetite you death come unannounced.
Your hunger to feed on those we love rob us of
the best brains. It stripped us of those we smiled with, and those we shared
special moments.
Oftentimes, you waylay those whose gift made us
have a reason to love life. It’s your last words which dethroned Chris Van Wyk
one so beautiful with words.
If you care to read this Ode to Chris, death, my
words are dripping with disbelief. Herein is a tribute to a maestro wordsmith.
Man among man who made words to dance, laugh and whisper softly in our ears.
Yes death you have taken with you a gentle giant.
It’s proper to doff ones hat to a fellow traveler. The late Chris Van Wyk was
words, and words began to shape and define his entire world.
He was covered with words and had the knack to
brew them like potent home brew. His words at time glistened like minerals. He builds
a mine of words, and dug them to enthralled, entertain and educate.
To shelter himself from the mundane, Chris escaped
to the world of words. Words which offered him solace. He lived apologetically in an environment exploding with beautiful, blessing and
bullshiting words.
Using the art of sawing with word, he knitted for
his people an anti - apartheid full proof garments which was wrapped round
bodies of men and women who rise against the hostile regime.
As Chris' words were in the beginning, so will
they be in the future. To many who were influenced by his words, he would
remain royalty, a real king of the word.
Such was the sparks of affinity between Chris and
the cutting edge words he so delicately interwoven.
He love and invested dearly in words, for his
entirely life. One would be forgiven for think Chris was born clasping words in
his hands.
These words he never once, contemplated to divorced
distance and desert them, to in pursuit other glorious career path.
For as long as I knew Chris, his suitcase was brim-full
of his worldly words. His words opened for his readers the prison doors and
gave us picture of torture of our brothers and sisters.
He made us traveled to the world that traces
footsteps of our leaders. Thought his words he was able to immortalized Mandela
for countless world children, of the world.
His words offered sanctuary for those in need of
forgetting their hardship and seek answers from his words.
To honour his delicious words, Chris remained
loyal to his words. Words also served him well, he also reciprocate by
remaining a part of them, until death do them apart.
Chris was joined to words for life. To someone
like me, Chris taught me a lesson to commit to doing what one loves
unconditionally.
In my mind I imagine a scenario where Chris even
as he gasp the last breadth. Holding his pen writing to his dear gods before
dropping his instrument of trade for some in our midst to take over where he
left over.
Never have I witness such a committed person to
his work. Like a foot soldier leading from the front, Chris carried his
words with his shoulders held high.
He was always standing upright, and carried his
arsenal like a well drilled patriot. Whose well-oiled rifle never
malfunctioning and misfires no matter the answering, rat-rat-tang heavy fire of
the enemy, stationed on the other side.
Chris was known for firing a volley of touching
words with his loaded rifle, inside the heart of the dispossessed, spurring
them to live in hope in a hopeless and wretched world.
He was also not shy to train his lethal missiles powered
by poetic justice to the bastion of the untouchable oppressors.
Each time, whenever his poisonous missiles hit
the target he use to smile sarcastically counting his casualties.
Chris was known for employing word like mortar
bombs to implode the whole of the apartheid infrastructure from its foundation,
and blow them to smitten.
Leaving in his trail mountains of debris which
humiliated the power that be, within the Pretoria security apparatus.
Each moment Chris was tirelessly and carefully molding words like a sculpture does to his or her statuette with nibble hands conscientiously.
He created a world of words for his endearing
audience to worship. His writing was a glorious church where some went to pray
for a lifetime.
Paying reverence to the stream of healing flowing
with sweet words until kingdom come Chris' bold body of words, words he himself
masterfully crafted, reminded us of time trapped and frozen in spaces familiar
yet unfamiliar.
The very words of Chris became a language of
inquest, a vocabulary of innocence, a dictionary of intrigue, a bible of innovations,
a voice of interrogation, an inspiring text and an instrument to investigation
injustices.
As if those words respected his own wishes, they
also lived in him, in the process defining this wordsmiths universal
interpretation of the world within, and a wretched world.
Through his well packaged words Chris campaign
for classless communities and colourless coexistence. Through his words he was
able to offered counsel to those conquered and crushed by colonists.
He was a chief commander of words which became a
clarion call to his generation and those who encountered him at a later stage.
Through his wise powerful words he offered
counsel to those censured for claiming their own country. Through his words he
coordinated circumstances of those clubbed to submission by circumstances
beyond their making.
And, through his words he comforted and
championed the causes of the conscientious. His words became a canvass from
which comrades in camps carefully assessed the situation in the country of
their birth.
Chris was a chapter of bliss in the dark days.
His verses of hope in flushed fear in our life as we challenged the system.
His words help use as a nation to write scripts
of euphoria in our triumphant moment. His deep words provided ammunition for
activists to dance and shoot at the same time.
But, Chris lived life behind sandbag of words,
firing bombardment of words, against the system of segregation. When he had
disappeared in the world of world he was fearless.
During the most callous days of apartheid he used
litany of acidic words to fire bow and arrows tearing footprints and footsteps
of our oppressor.
He also lived in dreams and desire, loving life
and was prepared through his words to risk life and limb. Mostly, because of
Chris' modesty I was unable to tell him in his face that he was the light of
life.
In fact he was undoubtedly the god of words
in my books. He was able build paradise through hold no barrel words. His godly
like writing elicited mixed feeling on many people depending on which side you
were standing.
The late Chris' frame coursed with words, from
the top of his head to the tip of his toes. Seldom does one encounter someone
whose bloodstream flows with words in the best and worst of times.
In the world of words, Chris was beautiful.
Outside the world of words Chris was a man of few words, in my own assessments.
At SACHED Trust where his office was few doors
away from mine, Chris chiseled words, as if he was running a factory
manufacturing words. He appeared at his best and content when surrounded with
words.
His books were always in my company. For most of Chris' fans individuals who loved to hide behind his words, Chris left a treasure of word to continue where he left off.
Lala kahle Chris Van Wyk!
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