13/12/2025
Through the Lens of Legacy
This morning, I listened to my daughter speak about her photography. She is a fine art student at the University of Cape Town, preparing for her fourth year, and already excelling in her field. As she spoke, I felt a deep stirring—one that reached far beyond the present moment.
She never met my father.
My father was a photographer, well known in the Strand and Rusthof community. Photography was one of his greatest passions. He was also an entrepreneur long before the word became fashionable. He worked full-time at Gants, and after hours, he did whatever was necessary to provide.
On Saturdays, he sold chickens from his Toyota bakkie, driving through Blikkiesdorp, Webb Street, Liberty Street, etc. The radio played rugby—All Blacks versus the Springboks—while we sat in the back of the bakkie as children, helping him, watching him, learning resilience and dignity without knowing that these were lessons God was quietly planting in us. On Sundays, he took photos.
Listening to my daughter, I realised that something had been passed down—quietly, faithfully, without ceremony. A gift woven into our family long before any of us had language for calling or purpose.
My father would have been immensely proud of her.
My reflection then turned inward.
As a child, I struggled to reach my full potential—not because I lacked ability, but because I carried a deep internal conflict about belonging. I had a father who, according to the standards of that generation, was a Black man in a time when Black men were not fully regarded as human beings, but treated as lesser versions of the human race. Without anyone ever saying it out loud, that message found its way into me—and I began to see myself the same way.
Not good enough.
Not fully belonging.
And yet, my father was an educated man in every sense that truly mattered. He achieved much, despite never having had the opportunity to go to school. He educated himself by sitting around tables with educated people—especially white people—listening, learning, asking questions. I still remember how he would say with such pride, “die wit man het my vandag geleer…” Not from inferiority, but from a hunger to grow.
Looking back now, I believe my father was one of the most intelligent men I have ever known. Life denied him formal education, but it could not take away his mind, his dignity, or his willingness to learn. What the system withheld, he pursued anyway.
Teachers recognised my intelligence. I performed well academically. I often helped classmates with their schoolwork and was invited into their homes. Outwardly, I appeared capable and confident. Inwardly, I wrestled with doubt—quietly carrying a sense that I still had to prove I was worthy.
I remember being called out of class by a teacher—not in trouble, but because he was exceptionally proud of my achievements. Later, just before my matric year, my parents were called in again. This time, the message was clear: I needed to go and study further.
I did not understand university. I did not know the language, the systems, or the pathways. But looking back now, I can see the gentle hand of God guiding decisions I did not yet have the capacity to understand.
So I was obedient.
Watching my daughter now is deeply healing.
She stands confidently in her creativity. She does not shrink. She does not question her right to belong. She carries the gift—but without the burden I carried. What once felt restricted has been released.
This is how God heals generations—not always loudly, not always instantly, but faithfully. What my father carried in his hands, what I carried in my heart, my daughter now carries with freedom.
His passion lives on through her lens.
And in witnessing her, I finally make peace with the child I once was—knowing now that God always saw what the world refused to recognise, and that I was always enough.
