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Welcome Skosana’s career was a venturesome journey through the land of the greats and fallible, the drunken master and priggish, arrogant talented scribes where humility and ubuntu come closest to meeting, even if they never touch; a dark and blighted world where not even a lodestar can lead you to greatness.
When I welcomed Skosana at City Press, we walked on a tightrope. What made the journey darker and tighter was his naivety about humans and black bosses. This meant he had opened the exit door the minute he entered the high-voltage, adrenaline rush of hypercompetitive wordsmiths and nerds. And, fair enough, the world of the lacklustre, impotent and smarmy scribes.
I grudgingly accepted the responsibility, knowing that the yoke around my neck would tighten. Photographer Sipho Maluka was not only a witness the day I was "given" Skosana, but took time to show us his home.
I spent days agonising about my commitment. Eventually, I dedicated time to coach him. I failed spectacularly. In fact, his most successful writing was always prefaced with the desire to write “from the heart”. I encouraged him to dig deeper in his heart, as this was the only way to save his career.
Ghost writing and coaching young and old scribes was not an unusual thing in newsrooms. Minus my own inadequacies, I have helped many reporters rewrite their copy or been given a chance to coach them. The rewriting was a terrible way to lead because I was doing the young reporters a disfavour. But I was a frightfully impatient leader.
In the absence of this, the brave ones stay away. Pity showbiz is not said to be “true journalism”, as you are denied the experience of being in the frontier of crime, hard news, politics, science and other things. Instead you are relegated to a world of exhibitionists, at times spirited people whose art and craft is a gift from the gods.
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His exit from journalism can be attributed to the fact that, often, as a showbiz writer and editor you feel undervalued and unappreciated. Worse as an editor, that you have hit the ceiling and the only way out is to take the plunge. Hard news, investigative and political reporters are the newsroom warriors until their front page well runs dry and they look to showbiz writers to give them, unreasonably, a spectacular front page story.
Skosi, as we fondly called him, was a rotund and stoic fellow with a hearty laugh. But he had one special attribute – ubuntu. Unlike many of us, journalism did not go to his head. He imbibed generously, only to mimic, like many of us, the scribes of yesteryear who lived vicariously and hoped dangerously.
I made contact with Skosana on Facebook in April this year, and asked him about his life. In turn he told me: “I’m well, surviving. I’m a budding landlord. I survive through backroom rentals. I’m at times freelancing for individuals and local publications. However, advertising is a struggle. I’m open to new opportunities.”
To sign off, he shared his two cellphone numbers. I never reached out to him again. Sometimes, I wallow in the deep cravens of sorrow, at times I am a happy-go-lucky fellow. Depending on when we make contact, I might decide to follow up if the mood is on the rise.
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At times, I collapse under the weight of old friendships, not because I do not value them, but simply because the difficulties I am going through in life have chipped away at that young bubbly guy. Like many of you, I carry a lot of responsibility. Some of it comes with success and failure, business and perennial hustles, family and friends, but the daily grind is the big deal.
I had no meaningful conversations with Skosana after 2003. When I left City Press, the friendship fizzled out. We never really kept in touch, bar tepid conversations at sparse intervals.
Skosana, who was born on April 16 1978, died on July 19 2023. He was buried on Tuesday in Middleburg, Mpumalanga. He is survived by his wife Keaoleboga Maruping, two children, mother, two sisters and two brothers.
