In loving memory of uTat’omdala – Dr Monde Mayekiso
The day uTat’omdala left us, I was positively beaming with ideas. I was in a meeting,
enthusiastically discussing something that, until that moment, had commanded my undivided
attention. Then, quite suddenly, a sinking feeling came over me. The sun disappeared behind the
clouds and it felt as though someone had turned off the lights. I could not explain it, but
something had shifted. I remained in the meeting for a little while longer before abruptly
excusing myself, unable to shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong.
Then the message arrived.
I immediately called my dad. True to form, he answered, ‘Hi Cass, how are you?’ I responded, ‘Not
okay, Dad.’ He seemed puzzled and, in his usual measured manner, asked, ‘Why, Cass? What’s
wrong?’ I could scarcely comprehend his composure. Surely he knew. Eventually, I broke and told
him that I had heard. He was caught off guard, having wanted to be the one to tell me. He was
already en route, rushing to the family home. I could hear his devastation in the silence between
us.
I had not called because I needed somewhere to pour out my grief. I had called because, of everyone
in my immediate world, he was the first person I thought of. I wanted to be there for him.
uTat’omdala had been a confidant, mentor and something of an elder in my dad’s life, and I could
only imagine what it must have been like to receive what was perhaps the most devastating news
since the passing of his father, nearly four decades earlier.
For a little while, we simply remained on the line together, until an urgent call came through.
‘Cass, let me call you back. I need to take this.’ This is, incidentally, how approximately ninety
percent of the telephone calls between my dad and me come to an end. We seldom make it
through everything we intended to discuss before another obligation summons him elsewhere.
Ordinarily, I would respond with a quick, ‘No problem. Love you, Dad,’ and wait, because he
knows perfectly well that I would have it no other way.
My dad was raised by loving parents whose approach to expressing affection was almost Victorian
in its restraint. Saying ‘I love you’ at the end of a telephone call, or at all, was not something he
had grown up doing. As such, I knew it required a small, conscious adjustment. This time,
however, all I could manage was, ‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I am so sorry. Love you, Dad.’ I could almost
hear him making that familiar mental adjustment before responding, at a slightly accelerated
pace, ‘Thanks, Cass. Love you too.’ Only then did he return to his drive and the difficult
responsibilities that awaited him.
It is not that I ever question whether my dad loves me. Quite the contrary, I have always been
fortunate enough to know how loved I am by my family. I simply believe it is important to end
our conversations with that affirmation. Not flippantly or merely out of habit, but because we
never quite know which conversation might be our last. I would rather we never leave one another
wondering. But more on that another day.
A few hours later, I was still alone in our apartment. My husband had not yet returned from work
and I was at a loss for what to do with myself. I wandered over to our wine collection, dusted off a
bottle of Chardonnay, pulled a dining room chair towards the windowsill and poured two small
measures, one for uTat’omdala and one for myself.
The sun never did return that afternoon. Instead, the sky unfolded into a kaleidoscope of colours,
the sort of spectacle I would ordinarily have hurried to photograph, but I did not reach for my
phone. I simply sat there, looking out at the world, taking it all in. I will admit that, at one point,
I caught myself wondering whether pouring a glass of wine for someone who had just passed away
was an entirely sane activity. I dismissed the thought almost immediately and carried on. There
are, I reasoned, far stranger ways to spend an afternoon.
And then, quite unexpectedly, a little bird appeared.
He was beautiful, green and yellow, with a little tuft of feathers on top of his head and the sort of
colouring that might ordinarily have escaped my attention. He landed on the windowsill and
began pecking at the glass. I smiled. There we were, the two of us, separated by a pane of glass and
apparently in no particular hurry to be anywhere else. For a little while, it felt almost like
communion. Eventually, he took flight and I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared into
the tree just outside our study. How, I wondered, had I never noticed this little bird before?
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of pecking. At first, I could not determine where it
was coming from. I wandered about the apartment in my dressing gown, rather inquisitively
investigating the disturbance, until I found the culprit: my little bird. I glanced at my watch. It
was almost 08:00. Somehow, I had slept through my alarm and this tiny creature had taken it upon
himself to announce the beginning of my day. I tapped my fingernail against the glass in
acknowledgement. He pecked back and I went about my day.
This continued for weeks, then months. Each morning, or thereabouts, he would appear at the
window and I would return his greeting. It became a peculiar little ritual, one I had neither
anticipated nor consciously established. One morning, I remarked to my husband that I had
always believed birds to be early risers. Had we not been told, practically from infancy, that the
early bird catches the worm? I had imagined them setting off at 04:00 or 05:00, industriously
going about their business while the rest of us lay comfortably beneath our covers. Yet here was
this little chap, arriving at 08:00.
I began to worry that perhaps, like me, he had developed an unfortunate appreciation for a few
extra hours of comfort. What if his entire flock had already departed? What if all the worms had
been taken? What if he was, in fact, the avian equivalent of someone who repeatedly presses snooze
and then wonders why the day has got away from them? I worried for his prospects.
By then, I had returned to my usual sleeping habits, retiring to bed around 21:00 and waking
naturally much earlier. I would begin my day with one ear trained towards the window. He would
peck, I would tap back and we would get on with whatever business awaited us.
As I write this, I appreciate that it sounds suspiciously like the beginning of an admission that I
had lost my mind. But, to me, it felt quite the opposite. He was there, come rain or sunshine, and
so was I.
I should probably explain that I have never been much of a birdwatcher. On the countless family
holidays we took growing up, birdwatching was invariably one of the activities I elected to sit out.
I could appreciate a beautiful bird in passing, certainly, but I had never felt particularly compelled
to study its habits, identify its species or spend a perfectly good morning searching for one through
binoculars. Yet suddenly, I was fascinated. I wanted to know where he went after our morning
encounters, whether he had a family, why he had chosen our window and what exactly he found so
interesting about the glass.
There was, however, another question I could not quite bring myself to ask aloud. What if it was
uTat’omdala?
Not literally, perhaps. I understood perfectly well that birds were birds and that the natural world had its own rhythms and explanations. But something about the timing, the persistence and the gentleness of those encounters made me feel as though he was communicating with me. Almost as though he were saying, ‘I am okay, MaDontsa. Do not fret.’
I could not explain it, nor did I particularly wish to. Besides, I suspected that announcing uTat’omdala had taken to visiting me in the form of a small green-and-yellow bird might earn me a rather swift introduction to a padded room and a complimentary pair of grippy socks. So I kept it to myself.
Until one day, he did not come.
I waited and waited. I checked the windowsill, examined the tree and searched for movement amongst the branches. I listened for the familiar tapping that had become such an ordinary, comforting part of my days, but there was nothing. Before long, I found myself searching the internet for information about the life cycles of birds, migration patterns and their seasonal habits. Perhaps he had moved on. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps he had finally decided to take this business of catching worms seriously. Whatever the reason, I was distraught.
Later that afternoon, around the very hour I had received the news of uTat’omdala’s passing, I heard it. Peck, peck, peck. There he was, not at his usual morning spot, but at the very windowsill where, one year earlier, I had poured two small measures of Chardonnay.
It was the anniversary of uTat’omdala’s passing.
I stood there for a moment, unable to decide whether to laugh, be startled or simply accept the extraordinary coincidence for what it was.
The Chardonnay was no coincidence. uTat’omdala loved it, and it was from him that my own appreciation for it developed.
Wine was something of a family affair. At home, my dad had a particular idea of quality time that involved summoning us downstairs to the cellar to unpack and catalogue hundreds of bottles, all while his beloved eighties new-wave music played from the adjoining home theatre. Somehow, these activities always seemed to coincide with the afternoons when I had just returned from riding and had considerably more pressing social engagements to attend to. There I would be, standing amongst boxes of wine, while my dad poured a splash into a glass and asked what notes I could detect. I would swirl it, sniff it and make a rather poor attempt at appearing interested, all the while wondering how to explain that I had invited a group of girls over and urgently needed to prepare the home theatre for a photoshoot, followed by a sleepover.
And then there was the ‘family house’, as my youngest brother affectionately names uTat’omdala’s home. I can still picture him in his cream leather chair, a tall glass beside him, watching tennis, listening to music or discussing something to do with marine biology that I had absolutely no understanding of. We would sit together and discuss the goings-on in the world, sometimes with rather more conviction than diplomacy. There were heated debates, plenty of opinions and the comfortable familiarity of being amongst people who knew one another well enough to disagree without ever questioning the love beneath it all.
His place in our family stretched back long before my own memories of him. In 1980, he accompanied my dad and his brother to boarding school in Cape Town. uTat’omdala and uBhut’Jay, a family friend he had known since their days as students at Clarkbury, sat in the front of our family’s metallic blue Mercedes-Benz E-Class, while my grandmother (uGogo) and her sons sat in the back. There are people whose presence becomes so woven into the fabric of a family that it is difficult to imagine its future without them.
I think about those afternoons at the family house often. We were simply together. I can still picture him thrusting his fist into the air and shouting, ‘King Nadal!’
I am especially grateful that the last three years of his life brought us even closer. He had been the most senior clan member during my dad’s lobola negotiations, and in 2023, I had the honour of having him lead my own lobola negotiations with the ease and poise that were so characteristic of him. In 2025, he continued to play a pivotal role in the negotiations surrounding our wedding. Looking back, I realise that our final conversation was also one of the frankest we had ever shared.
On the eve of our wedding, I sought him out at Olivewood, in Cintsa. I had picked up a bottle of crisp Chardonnay and two glasses and made my way outside. What followed felt, more than anything, like a conversation between a father and daughter. He was, as always, direct, clinical in his reasoning and entirely without judgement. There was something of the philosopher about him, although his approach to life was decidedly pragmatic. I have often wondered whether that came from his years as a scientist or whether he had simply always been that way.
I am immensely grateful we had that conversation. Amidst the whirlwind of nerves before the wedding, I am glad I had the presence of mind to find him, sit with him and listen to his counsel. I could not have known it would be our last conversation in person.
A week before his passing, he had set time aside to call my parents. Amongst other things, he mentioned that he intended to call me, to see how I was settling into married life.
I still see my little bird from time to time. Not every morning, as I once did, but often enough to make me smile when he appears. I really ought to learn more about birds. I am quite certain there is a perfectly logical explanation for his whereabouts, particularly now that spring has arrived. Perhaps he has a mate, perhaps there is a nest nearby or perhaps he has simply found a more rewarding window to antagonise. Or perhaps he is still running late.
Whether he was helping me out of bed, offering a little solace during the day or merely a bird thoroughly irritated by the existence of a large window near his favourite tree, he has been one of the loveliest unexpected companions of this chapter in my life. I cannot say for certain what brought him to my window, but I know what his visits have meant to me.
uTat’omdala was a zoologist by profession and had taught the subject, although much of his later work was in marine science. Perhaps it is fitting, then, that of all the creatures that might have taken an interest in my window, a bird was not entirely out of character.
Thank you, Tat’omdala, for the gentle, sometimes persistent nod.
You are sorely missed, Donsta omkhulu.
By Cassandra Mayekiso-Tabata
Editorial contributions by Luba Mayekiso