Saint Molakeng was a revered journalist who wrote singing copy

THERE are many journalists who will recognise their own lives in the plight of the highly gifted late journalist and columnist, Tshokolo Saint P Molakeng who died last Saturday morning.

He died of diabetic complications at the age of 51.

His life is an important pointer of the fate of young, gifted black journalists and writers who work in the media industry that they do not own. The man suffered from a chronic illness that saw him subjected to a kind of psychological terror that was inherent in a high-pressure industry.

The mental pressure of deadlines created intermittent high-blood pressure that saw him collapse in the newsroom or stay away from work to nurse himself back to life. Some of the big bosses came down hard on him because they suspected that he feigned illness. The tender and kind allowed him to do what he could to save himself. Once, he survived a coma for a month. But still few of his bosses understood the plight of a talented man with a debilitating chronic illness. Much of the strain

that Molakeng worked on was produced by the fact that he was highly talented and skilled in writing. He was a young man with a fine command of the English language. And this created anxiety and fear among his peers and seniors who felt unsettled by such a man. They saw him as a threat. Worse, he exposed their illiteracy and poor reading culture and background.

When so bright a light finally succumbs to illness, we are left poorer.

One is left with a deep sense of sorrow and pain because Molakeng had no business to die. He may have given up hope … to be understood and appreciated for who he was: a gifted writer with a chronic illness.

The first time I ever saw Tshokolo Saint P Molakeng was on the pages of the socio-political magazine, Frontline.

Most readers have writers they fall in love with at first sight. His words seemed to fly up at me from the pages as I read. I intercepted them instantly, knowing that they were torn from the pages of the troubled black experience.

I knew that they told my story, they represented my reality and were meant to articulate, in a fluent manner, the agony and ecstasy of being young, gifted and black in apartheid South Africa.

Molakeng wrote singing copy that wanted you to turn his words over carefully in your mind. Or taste their sound on your lips. They were words that made you want to cling to them hard. It was not what he said but how he said it that was outstanding.

We really met, however, at the offices of the same Frontline, in 1987, when lawyer-turned-editor, Dennis

Beckett who seemed to attract young talented writers to contribute to his anti-apartheid magazine, introduced us. However, there was something distinct about Molakeng. He was way up there, poised to take up a special place in the league of some of the biggest writers to have come out of the black experience.

Later, he was to brag about his relationship with Sowetan editor, Aggrey Klaaste who respected him for his talent.

Molakeng seemed to like words, to play with them in a way that no one else could. He seemed special in a way that I did not quite grasp. He was pint sized and looked fragile in stature. Worse, he had a soft voice. I thought he was incapable of shouting. In fact, over the past 30 years or so, I had never heard him raise his voice. Not even in self-defence. There was a certain gentleness and generosity of the soul about him.

Much as they defined his character in journalism, he was not trying to “make it”. Instead, he did what he had to do: write, write, and write! And, boy, did he make the copy sing!

It was early in his life when he began to bask in the glory and fame of being an amazing writer. Much as he was sizzling on the Frontline pages, he soon was a star in Anton Harber’s Weekly Mail where he was part of a fresh group of interns. He was the columnist, feature writer and essayist.

In no time, talent spotters recognised that Molakeng was a rare writing talent. He was in demand and this saw him hop from New Nation, Sowetan, True Love, Drum, This Day, New Age, Business Day and Real magazine among titles that sought his talent.

What is relevant here is that South African journalism has rarely seen a highly talented young writer whose copy could make the heart sing with joy. There was only Can Themba before him.

The man, despite his rustic background, obtained a distinction for his English major at Wits University. He had no business to die at only 51. The journalism fraternity has lost a devoted and committed media professional who gave his life to journalism.