A tree has fallen. An indigenous tree.
The first and only reader of this column, Lewis James, has passed on to a higher realm where there are better Westerns to read, electrical networks to build, celestial constellations to study and children to encourage to play as much as they want — in the rain on the beach if that is their wish.
Lewis was a young 67 when he died unexpectedly in hospital in East London on December 11, leaving a community which extended from his home in beloved Parkside across the Eastern Cape rural countryside.
Lewis grew up free and wild in a village that planted and harvested all its own food outside Port St Johns, a coloured child who spoke only Xhosa and English and had to learn Afrikaans later.
His mother as young girl would load a cart full of coastal-grown oranges and trek 95km to Mthatha to sell the lot.
But learning was his lifelong passion and he never stopped exploring and finding out more.
He was delighted when YouTube arrived in his life and was an avid doomscroller of complex and new electrical systems.
His father, an indigenous medicine man many years older than his wife, died and the family moved to Mthatha and later Kokstad.
A young Lewis later moved to East London, where he vowed that his single mom would no longer have to work back-breaking hours as a caregiver in a city retirement centre.
He matriculated, found employment at the lowest level in the electricity department of the then-East London municipality and worked his way up to become one of the most experienced electricians in the area, spending the last decades of his working life as a contractor installing power networks in the rural areas of former Transkei — a return to roots, but bringing power and light.
Family. This was his bedrock, his raison dêtre, and as his three children grew up and grandchildren appeared, he made sure he was back home every weekend with cupcakes and candles — every weekend was a birthday for his grandies.
His three children grew up to be mechanics, teachers and journalists, all of them inspired and encouraged to be just like him, hard-working, ever exploring and always up for an enlightened adventure.
He would say: “It’s my day off tomorrow! Let’s go and visit family and friends in [then] PE!”
The meal on the table would be recycled back into pots and containers and loaded with clothes into the car and off the James clan would go.
He was not a bombast. In fact, he was quiet and humble, interrogating anyone who tried to give him a lavish gift on the value of things, but enjoyed nothing more than sitting around the braai or with a good cheeseboard with family and regaling them with family tales and Transkei lore.
But the spark of intellect burned ever bright in Lewis, and he was so keen on educating his clan that he once packed all five James boys into the car and took them off to his first village home in the hills above Port St Johns for some life orientation.
As a father of daughters, he was fierce about them not becoming victims or subservient in a patriarchal relationship.
Vowing they would never be financially dependent on any man, he set about imparting skills in the girls which classmates found somewhat bewildering when a young James girl got up and delivered her oral on the workings of an electrical distribution board.
He made sure they were able to change a plug for a kettle or light, work out why a board had tripped and what to do about it.
When one of the girls left home as a young woman to pursue a career in the ephemeral and dangerous career of reportage, his farewell gift was a toolbox containing all the tools, screws, nails and fasteners a new flat dweller would need, all of it packed around the centrepiece, a powerful electrical drill which she still has to this day.
Parenting was all about letting the children have as much fun as they could find in the world.
When he made a kite, they would all pile into the car and ride out to an open space where they could fly it.
If the night sky was clear, off they would go.
The children would lie on top of their yellow Chevy and look up at the twinkling abyss as their dad pointed out and named planets, stars and constellations.
In later life, his children finally did manage to give him a fancy gift — two telescopes for stargazing, which he accepted graciously and with gratitude. For this had value!
Music too was a great love, and he soared across the genres appreciating it all, but having a special love for Reggae, especially Peter Tosh.
But let's get back to his love of this column.
Yes, he did read Deloris for a fresh take on writing and the other stuff, but he was an avid fan of the Daily Dispatch across all its pages and issues.
His child, who also rose the hard way through the ranks to hold the hot seat as editor, also had an avid and critical reader — Cheri-Ann, home-grown, footslogging reporter, sharp news editor and a doughty, insightful editor, had to endure her father critiquing every story, pointing out language, factual and technical flaws without any restraint!
He loved this paper and his last days were spent finding out from his nurses if they read it, and if not, why not?
Among her last memories of this simply superb Eastern Cape family man were voice notes he sent to her from his hospital bed expressing his deep concern that young people were not reading the paper or any decent journalism or literature, and what was she going to do about that!
Farewell Lewis James, we dads and hacks salute you as a quiet, yet unforgettable champion!
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