A letter to Uncle Thafu.

To Uncle Thafu,

Many long years have passed since you left for the green pastures. Your departure was a relief to many of us, perhaps even to you, for life here was harsh and often caused you pain—and sometimes pain for others, including Agogo. It was your brothers who made sure you reach the land of the Zulus, a place of promise for many of our people. Uncle, these years feel endless, stretching like an eternity. What once was relief has slowly turned into a deep, aching longing. Your absence has left hollow spaces in our hearts, a yearning to feel your presence once more.

We have laid Agogo to rest. Watching aunts and uncles lay their wreaths and say their final goodbyes to their beloved mother broke us. Remembering that her other son was not there—and not knowing if he even knew of her passing—made the pain unbearable. Despite all the struggles we had, Agogo would have wanted to see you before she left this world. Though we fought, as I grow older, I see how much we shared. I understand now that you wished me well.

I do not know if I am writing to a ghost, but the truth is, we miss you deeply, uncle. We pray in quiet desperation that someday we might see your face again. So much has changed in these thirteen years. Your little son has grown into a man, but it pains me to think how different life would have been had you been there for him. It brought a flicker of comfort to see you on Facebook, to hear you had reached out to Uncle Tama—it meant you still existed somewhere. But then you stopped. Why did your profile disappear? Why the silence? I was filled with pride when I saw your books on Amazon. I remember telling Thepe about your three-volume work. I admired your voice, your creativity, and wished we could have heard more from you and your work.

During her sickness, in the fog of dementia, Agogo spoke of you constantly. News of xenophobia and deportations made her anxious; she would ask if anyone had heard from you. I remember the day she told us she saw you passing by the house and urged us to bring you home because she thought you were lost. That was her longing—a mother’s desperate hope to see her son again. Sometimes I feel she died a sad mother.

I know life may be unbearably hard for you out there. We understand the struggle to survive in a foreign land. All we want is to know how you are. Are you alive? Are you still holding on? When Agogo died, an emptiness swallowed me whole. I knew I would miss her like no other, for she was my steadfast support. But your silence, your absence, made the void immeasurably deeper. I feel as though I carry your sorrow within me, unknown and unspoken. Uncle T, we long to hear from you again. We need to know you are still there.