Sadness for Moses Khumalo by Lindikaya Ntshinga

In life we get to live, breathe, and listen — at times we perish. I said it was my last note, if you check your lock, it is next year, Cats, so Ntshinga can write again. But some moments demand words, even when sorrow sits heavy in your chest.

As a teacher, I am reminded of this school Fuba. It breaks my heart. This piece is dedicated to Moses — not Taiwa, but Khumalo, Mnntungwa. I had plans for him. I believed in him. When he made Hymn for Taiwa, I saw the depth of his soul, the care he carried for others. I knew the boy personally, just as I knew Taiwa. That knowledge makes this loss even more bitter.

There is irony, tragedy, and weight in this story. He was 27 when he gave us Hymn for Taiwa — a gift of music, of reflection, of life. A life full of promise, cut too soon. Later, he took his own life. For me, for the Cats Jazz community, and especially for me, Lindikaya, this is a wound that does not easily close.

Yet even in sorrow, we remember. We honour the light he brought into our lives. We hold tight to the music, the laughter, the moments that remain. Moses, your song will not be forgotten. Your life, brief though it was, mattered. And for those of us left behind, it is a reminder of the fragility of life, the importance of care, and the responsibility we have to see one another — truly see one another.

This note is solemn, proud, and heavy, but it is also a recognition: that even in passing, those who touch our lives leave a mark that resonates — like a jazz note that lingers long after the horn has gone silent.

Enkosi, Moses, and may your memory live in every melody, in every pause, in every heart that remembers you.

Xhosa: Ndiyabulela ngolwazi lwakho, uMoses, kunye nemizuzwana oyishiye kuyo yonke intliziyo.
French: Merci, Moses, pour la lumière que tu as laissée dans nos vies.

Written by admin