Today I want to acknowledge an elderly hero who has passed on. A true son of the African soil has gone to meet his Maker; a man who, quietly, thanklessly and tirelessly toiled for many decades under the African sun to feed a nation and provide for his family.
But there will be no national mourning for this man. There will be no celebrities glistening in the sun, black-draped and awash with crocodile tears. There will be no hero’s farewell with pomp and circumstance, and hysterical crowds. No headlines will rouse the emotions of a nation for this man, and it is doubtful that anyone outside his family and circle of friends will even notice his passing.
No, dear reader. Today there is only a small group of people – hearts broken in grief – who will notice this man’s absence. Perhaps only a modest ceremony will mark the occasion of his death, and the only reminder of his existence in years to come, might be a simple stone lying in the dust amongst the aloes and the spekboom, and the jackals and the scorpions, on some desolate Karoo vlakte.
…Because this man was a farmer. This elderly man did not die peacefully in bed, attended by many doctors and surrounded by loving family and friends. Johan Troskie was savagely murdered last night (12th December 2013) on his farm near Cookhouse in the Eastern Cape; and his wife was severely beaten and is hospitalised- yet another of the thousands of heroes who have been tortured and murdered on South African farms.