The letter I really wish I did not need to write
Yeoville June 18 2022 Dearest Ma,
The suicide of his mother when he was 15 acted as a catalyst for Kumi Naidoo’s journey into radical action against apartheid. Here the global activist opens up about another death that affected him profoundly, the suicide of his son and one of SA’s most famous rappers, Riky Rick
Ihad not planned to write this letter and really wish I did not need to, but once again suicide has blown my world apart in the most tragic way imaginable. On the morning of February 23 I was in Berlin, where I had been working for several months, when I picked up a call from Louisa on her third attempt in as many minutes. I heard Louisa clear her throat and say: “Hi, Kumi, are you at the flat? I need you to wake up properly and have a glass of water.” Even though her voice was even and calm, I knew that something awful had happened. “Are you sitting?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Rikhado hung himself this morning.” I remember hearing myself scream: “Oh my God, oh my God!” and remember hearing Louisa’s voice telling me: “So sorry, Kumi. Please call Naomi, Kovin and Karmini before it appears in the media.”
Dazed, I called my daughter Naomi but was unable to reach her, though thankfully I was able to contact her mum. I then called my younger brother Kovin and sister Karmini. Not many words came out of my mouth. I was on the phone with Karmini when Naomi returned my call. She was sobbing uncontrollably. We talked about my last conversation with Rikhado on February 12. He had sounded quite down at the beginning, but by the end of our conversation we were laughing and he said that he would come to visit me in Berlin during the Easter holidays.
“I should have realised. I should have known,” I said to Naomi. “I am so stupid. Why else would he have phoned and started thanking me for everything I did? I spent time with him last month and he could have said these things to me then.”
Naomi, through her tears, said: “Dad, you cannot blame yourself. He called me that same day and I missed his call. I sent him a message but he didn’t call back.”
I told Naomi I was heading home immediately and we agreed she would try to get there as soon as possible.
That last time we talked, I asked Rikhado if everything was okay. It was early morning, a strange hour for him to call. “Things are good. Mainly good, but eish, there are lots of pressures.”
Rikhado calling so early was unusual but not exceptional. In his younger days, MaRiky (his pet name) calling at odd times, or waking you up to borrow the car, or whatever, was something the family had more or less got used to. We put this down to his creative process which meant he kept odd hours. Rikhado made music that resonated with young people in our country and beyond; he inspired them to dream big and believe in themselves, especially young artists and creatives like himself. He had achieved recognition and success beyond anything we could have imagined and we all wanted to support him. He had become popular and famous; few people knew his relationship to me and Louisa.
I asked Riky how his wife Bianca and his children, Jordan and Maik, were doing. He told me they were just fine; “perfect” was the word he used. “You know, Bianca is an angel,” he said. I also asked if he’d seen his mum and brothers recently and he assured me that they were all doing well, giving me a quick lowdown of what Sheikani, Themba and Ntobeko were doing, and how his working life was overlapping with theirs, something he was happy about.
When Rikhado was younger and I was working in various parts of the world, he would ask me: “Do you know people there I could meet? Can you organise a plane ticket?” But this was a very different kind of conversation; there was a difference in his voice and he said: “I just want you to listen today; I just have some things I need to say.”
“Have I done something to upset you, Rikhado?”
“No, no. It’s just that there are some things you did for me I never thanked you for properly.”
He then reeled off a list of things that I had done for him from the moment he came into my life when he was eight years old. Earlier in the conversation he also spent almost half an hour talking about things happening around him that were making him feel deeply sad.
Rikhado expressed great sorrow about the recent deaths of several young people he had been mentoring and trying to support who had died in violent incidents and car accidents. He found it devastating that life had become so cheap. He spoke about what he called the “crazy corruption” in our country and his disillusionment with politics and politicians: “It tells you how low we have sunk when people will even steal money from the efforts to deal with the Covid pandemic. I feel so powerless.”
He said he wanted to simplify his life. “People are putting pressure on me to be a role model. I’m struggling with that. How can I be a real role model if I live a life I know the majority of people in the world cannot live?” Then he said: “I sold a car. Well, a Porsche.” When he sold it, he said he was attacked on social media and it had made him despondent.
But by the end of our phone call, we were both laughing. When he was finished talking, I said: “Ah, okay, since you insisted on your list of things, let me just tell you the one thing you forgot.” He laughed and said: “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry I wrote off your car.” And then he said: “And thanks for not freaking out about it.”
“Ja, but I had three weeks to cool off before I got back from my work trip.” After a pause he added: “By the way, when I say I am trying to simplify things, I am not saying I am moving back to Yeoville.” (I live in Yeoville, a culturally rich and diverse but rather run-down part of Johannesburg). “But,” he continued, “I’m going to simplify my life.” As we laughed, he said: “Thanks for making me laugh. Needed that today.” I will so miss his smile and gentle sense of humour.
I had earlier tried to stop him going through his thank-you list, saying: “Come on, Rikhado, what is this? You’re my son. You don’t need to thank me. I was so happy to be able to do all of this for you.” And then he said: “Oh, I really needed to hear you say that today.” “Why? What’s so special?” “No, no, I just needed to hear it today because I was feeling down.”
By the time I landed in Joburg, still replaying our conversation in my head, it was obvious to me Rikhado had already made the decision to end his life when he called me the previous week. It was devastating to realise I had failed to figure it out before it was too late.
My nephew Dilon picked me up at the airport and filled me in with what was
happening. Rikhado’s profile meant that there was considerable media interest in his death. We drove straight to Rikhado’s family home, mainly in silence. There were many cars outside. I took a deep breath and walked in.
The first person I saw was Maik, Rikhado’s sevenyear-old son.
Maik was playing on his phone but looked up and said: “Kumi!” in a sad voice which sent a painful shock through my entire body. As I hugged him tightly I saw his sister Jordan’s sad face just across from me. I hugged Jordan too but we didn’t say anything. I was dreading having to look into Bianca’s and Louisa’s eyes. Someone told Louisa I had arrived and, as I turned away from Jordan, Louisa hugged me and it felt as though the world had stopped. “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” Louisa said as she held me tightly through our tears. She then took me to Bianca, and I hugged her without saying a word, desperately trying not to cry too much.
The next few days were unbearably hard. As our family poured out our grief it took me back to the days following your own suicide, Ma. It was heartbreaking to watch the children try to make sense of their dad’s absence, just as I had grappled with your loss so many years ago. But I also realised that it is every bit as painful to lose a child as to lose a parent. You knew that pain too, Ma, and I understand it better now. And yes, I regret also that we have the loss of a child in common.
Riky and his brothers have been an important part of my life ever since their mum and I got together in 1997. I knew instinctively that I would come to love the boys deeply, right from the start, and Louisa and I had long discussions at the outset about what we would do if things didn’t work out between us. We made a pact that whatever happened, we would always be friends and take care of each other and the boys, and that as long as they wanted to, they would always be part of my life. That was the start of the most wonderful journey, and the boys made my love for Louisa a thousand times more precious.
Riky was a sensitive child, peaceful, with a beautiful gentleness. He was creative and passionate but sometimes he would withdraw into his shell. It took us time to connect but we did end up becoming extremely close. When Louisa and I went through difficulties and decided that we would go back to being friends rather than partners, Rikhado took it badly. He was upset with me because I did not have a conversation directly with him about what was going on between me and his mum. To be honest, I found it very hard to discuss this with the boys and Naomi, and I could not go into the details, which were very painful and personal. In any event, I felt that this was a story for Louisa to tell in her own words and in her own time.
In 2008, when Rikhado was a student at AFDA studying filmmaking, I told him I was making plans to go underground to consult with comrades in Zimbabwe about the situation there in order to explore what help might assist the people of Zimbabwe. At the time, the political situation there was quite tragic. It was going to be a risky mission and I discussed it with Riky one evening.
Rikhado asked me: “What are you going to need?” “A videographer for sure,” I responded. Then he said: “My friend and I are going to come. We want to do it. It will be good for our course.”
Risking yourself is one thing; risking your child is quite another. However, I felt this was their decision to make. When his friend could not join the mission, my instinct was to release Riky from the responsibility as well, but Riky said: “No, I am coming with you.”
We spent 10 tense days in Zimbabwe. Every day our lives were on the line as we navigated army roadblocks and other visible signs of repression. I had no idea then that Rikhado was fighting addiction. Even so, he recognised that the people of Zimbabwe needed solidarity and made the decision to go with me. I hoped it was also because he just wanted to hang out with his “pops”.
After we got back home, Rikhado produced his first and only short documentary, called Time2Act: An appeal from the people of Zimbabwe, which helped launch our solidarity efforts. We soon discovered what Rikhado had been going through, and all our focus was then on his rehab. Rikhado taught me so much during this period. He showed enormous strength and courage. He went into residential rehab, then a halfway house, then daily counselling and eventually weekly counselling. I grew to love him more and more as I saw how hard he was trying and how determined he was to come out on the other side. I used to “accidentally” call him on his counselling days but never asked about it specifically and he would say: “Don’t worry, I am going to my counselling later.”
Not long after that I started working for Greenpeace International, based in Amsterdam. Rikhado was back on his feet by then, doing well, and he asked if he could come with me. I agreed immediately. Some of my friends said: “Your boy has just come out of rehab and you’re taking him to Amsterdam?” I said: “I have confidence. It’s going to be fine.” Riky was with me there for six months. I was travelling a lot for my job but I never felt anxious about leaving him. He was so together. He was actually a big support to me.
When we spoke for the last time, Riky thanked me for contributing to the change in his approach to music. “What you talking about?” I said laughing, thinking he was making fun of me. Before his time in Amsterdam, he had been composing his songs in English, but there, at my urging, he sought out African musicians from all over the continent, and by the time he returned to South Africa he was mixing English with Zulu and other African languages and acting on the advice shared by the African musicians and creatives he met there. That surge of creative energy that exploded in Amsterdam culminated in a hugely successful album that propelled Riky into a new world. It meant so much to me that he called this album Family Values.
I have spent all my life working for positive change that enhances the interests of the poorest among us but Rikhado, through his music, had an ability to reach ordinary people, to move and inspire them, that went far beyond anything Louisa and I could hope to achieve through our activism. When I saw Rikhado for the last time in January, he said: “Eish, you and mum must chill, relax and not work so hard.” He gently intimated that notwithstanding all our efforts over the years, the world was still full of inequality, poverty and other injustices. We talked about his potential to be a force for good in our society and we talked again about setting up a foundation to focus on young people “especially to give young artists a chance. You know, to make it.”
We are living through a frightening era, Ma, and rapidly running out of time to stop irreversible climate change. Already we are experiencing more extreme weather and rising sea levels. In April, severe flooding hit Durban and over 600 people died.
Nature does not negotiate. Scientists have been telling us about the threat of climate change for decades but our leaders in government and business refuse to put a brake on the industries that are driving global warming. I used to think the system was broken but now I’ve reached the view that the system is working exactly as it was designed to work: to benefit a tiny minority at the expense of the majority. Greed is driving us to the point of extinction and we continue to ignore its harm at our peril. The brutality of our economic system that ignores the pain of the poor cannot continue to go unchecked; we need action on a scale and at a pace we have never seen before.
Riky understood this. Possibly that was why he found it so hard to reconcile the contradictions between his own values and the trappings of wealth and fame that his success brought him. In our last conversation he also thanked me for creating the opportunity for him to perform in public for the first time at the Nelson Mandela Youth Centre in Chatsworth in 2009. The song he sang that day was called Tell Me Why? and his lyrics capture our situation better than anything I can say:
The next generation, Face devastation; We have no moderation,
Committing deforestation
Where is the motivation, For its elimination. Tell me why?
Children and mothers crying, Fathers and brothers dying
Governments, they’re lying, Telling my people they’re trying
In the midst of all this unfair war and poverty
All they talk about is the price of property. Tell me why?
I’m talking to you
The global population is living in desperation Where is the destination for the African nation? Corporate domination is worth more than preservation
Tell me why?
Riky taught me that activism must change. We don’t need lofty ideas, big words or complicated concepts. We need to recognise that while we have material needs, we are also spiritual beings. We must appeal to people’s hearts as well as their heads, bringing together arts, culture and activism in a new kind of “artivism” that engages people’s deepest impulses towards love, justice and freedom. Three days after he called me on February 15, just a few days before he died, Riky posted a message to his fans: “Please believe in young people. Give them as many opportunities as they need to prove themselves. At any cost.”
✼ This is an edited extract from ‘Letters to my Mother – The Making of a Troublemaker’ by Kumi Naidoo. Published by Jacana Media. Available in bookstores and online from November 1. Recommended retail price: R300