Uncle Tommy

It has been a sad day: my dad's older brother, Thomas, passed away this morning.

I remember oh so clearly his early Saturday morning visits (generally before 7am). He'd arrive (wherever we were living at the time) in his (always) beat-up farm bakkie with some old, dazed-looking dog in the passenger seat. His visits were always short and he always seemed to be on his way to somewhere else. Perhaps he'd have a cup of tea and some of my mom's chocolate eclairs/layer cake/fruitcake/cheese scones. If we were lucky he'd throw in a story about what the four James boys used to get up to as children, but always, there'd be lots of dry jokes and when he'd gone, the sound of his booming voice and raucous laughter resonated in the place long afterwards.

I remember Uncle Tommy for his dedication to my grandparents during their lifetimes and for his love of the land: for rearing our best pork roasts ever and for his never-ending supply of delectable tomatoes, onions and more. (We've recently started our own vegetable patch in the "secret garden" behind our house and now realise how much diligent care and effort this demands).

In the world's eyes, there was perhaps nothing remarkable about Uncle Tommy and nothing about his legacy that would declare him a "successful" man . But what made him remarkable was that he was my dad's brother. And he was my uncle.

Hamba kahle, Uncle Tommy...
Your voice still resonates in this place.