Introduction

This chapter has been the most difficult and emotionally draining for me to write in my 30 years as a scholar, researcher and writer. The reason for this is that it required me to step out of my most private and darkest space, and to openly share very treasured feelings about two people who were very dear to me, but who have sadly passed on. The actual process of writing the chapter was very humbling. As individuals, we each have our public space where we feel comfortable to welcome everybody and candidly share some of our less treasured experiences, without any hindrance. This is our public comfort zone through which we openly project ourselves and seek affirmation. In the modern digital era, that space is provided by social media such as Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, ResearchGate and Strava for athletes, to mention a few. But we also each have our private space where we studiously guard against exposing our deeper, most personal experiences, feelings, hopes and aspirations to the public. This is the space into which we retreat to meditate and mull over issues that gnaw deep into, and trouble, our consciences.

In preparing to write this chapter, I had to harness the courage to open up a private space which I had vigilantly protected from the public glare, in some instances for almost 40 years. I have since been rudely awakened to the fact that sometimes the Sesotho saying, “monna ke nku, ha a lle”, which literally suggests that “a man is like a sheep, he does not cry and wail” (as do, for example, a goat or pig when they are slaughtered) can potentially be counterproductive to tangibly healing from tragic occurrences such as the loss of loved ones. I am now more than ever convinced that the sort of socialisation by which there seems to be an unwritten rule or norm that men must be tough, they must bite their lip, and bear the pain and suffering quietly (“ukunyamezela” in isiXhosa), has its downsides or unintended consequences.