Insight into Thomas Motingwa’s book that never was
Inever thought it would turn out this way, having to sit down to write this. Not so soon, at least. It was supposed to be a book, chronicling his life struggles. A biography, if I may say, not an obituary.
Not even an article in the pages of a newspaper or magazine, for I had written one before. I remember this quite vividly because not so long ago, he called me. It was late in the evening when he called.
As usual, we exchanged some pleasantries before quickly moving into our pet subject or should I say the project, a young girl christened Tamasane Montshopitsa. I call her Wendy, he preferred Tamasane. However, Tamasane was not the topic for that day.
My namesake, Thomas Motingwa, seemed to have fallen in love with my writing and followed everything I wrote somewhat religiously. He always told me I was such a good writer particularly mesmerized by the way I played with the Queen’s language, English.
A compliment I humbly accepted and cherished even though I felt it was just flattery. But nay, he meant it from the bottom of his heart and would brag about it whenever he introduced me to other people. When he called that evening, he simply wanted me to help him write his biography.
Breaking the ice, he said I have a lot to share with humanity. He wanted to do this before passing on, a story about his life struggles. He told me that when this came to his mind, the first name that popped up immediately was mine.
The biography would have been a telltale, as he told me. He was to narrate while I took notes and with my journalistic prowess transform that into a book, so he told me.
However, I told him I was time constrained and had my hands full at work but he insisted that I advise him how to go about it instead. We spoke at length and our parting shot was that we would revisit the subject as soon as I found time. But the common refrain is that procrastination is the greatest thief of time.
It robbed us of that opportunity to unlock what was in Motingwa’s mind that he so much wanted to share with Batswana or posterity. If I had my way, I would act God and venture into Motingwa’s head and tap into his brain to write the book but I am just a mortal and only regrets remain for I have missed that opportunity.
I cannot recall how we first met but all I can say is that ours was a match made in heaven, so they say.
He believed in me and I too believed in him. Somehow he believed I was an advocate for People Living with Disabilities ( PWDs).
For this, he would co- opt me into a ministerial committee for PWDs and made me a focal person for the Ministry of State President during the time I served as a journalist for the Department of Information Services.
At one point he would recruit me to join him at the Coordinating Office for People with Disabilities but government bureaucracy scuppered his plan to have me as his sidekick. The telepathy between us was our quest to address the plight of the underprivileged.
To borrow from one of them, whom we worked hard together to address her plight, Motingwa was the right candidate for that office. Because of his disability, he understood the struggles PWDs endured almost all their lives. How it was tough to wake up and face a world ignorant of the plight of PDWs.
He knew how hard it was for PWDs to get employment, the loneliness with failing relationships because some people would not dare date a PWD. I got this from Tamasane, whom he loved like his own daughter.
Tamasane was born an orphan in a small but desolate settlement called Khudumelapye in Kweneng District.
She lost her mother at birth. As if that was not enough, she would lose her hearing too.
Tamasane would be left to the vicissitudes of a cruel world raised by her grannies. Another misfortune would strike when her grandmother lost her sight barely three years after starting her primary school.
Life would become tough when the grannies grew too old and weak to continue providing for her. Wandering around alone and faced with a grim future, she would land in my office where I worked as an editor for Kutlwano Magazine.
After failing to find any options I immediately contacted Motingwa. For five years we collaborated on addressing Tamasane’s plight, organising temporary employment for her, keeping her under our wings as a father would for his daughter.
Guess what, the Tamasane you meet today is not the one you would have met some five years ago. She has been to Cape- town, South Africa where she did courses in agriculture, mixed farming.
In Setswana, the common refrain would be… fa go gatang Motingwa teng. He did not stop there. Tamasane is officially a civil servant under the Ministry of Agricultural Development and Food Security where she is on probation as a technical assistant… fa go gatang Motingwa teng!
When Tamasane’s appointment letter was eventually signed, Motingwa excitedly phoned me to break the good news.
This is Motingwa’s enduring legacy, a footprint that will remain indelible for many years to come.
This is but one of the short tales that defined Motingwa, a selfless giant who dedicated his life to the plight of PWDs. We were to celebrate Tamasane’s feat together but unfortunately, he left before we could taste the fruits of our labour, Tamasane’s first salary! A date was coming our way, a table for three had already been reserved.
Unfortunately, his chair remains empty. His date is now with his maker.
That is where his dinner table is set and I guess he is looking down at us content that he ran his race. We had hoped he would pull through but July 27 came with its own tale when Tamasane sent me a WhatsApp message that Motingwa was no more.
I did not expect this, at least so soon because the last message he had sent Tamasane sounded promising. I guess this would have been one of his memoirs in that book he so much wanted me to write. How I wish we had, but Adios my friend!