There is a particular cruelty in sudden death. When someone has been ill for a long time, the heart, slowly and unwillingly, begins to prepare itself. You start making room for the unbearable. You brace yourself in small, painful ways.
But when death arrives without warning, it rips through you with no mercy. As one writer once said, “The suddenness of death is what makes it unbearable. There is no time to say goodbye, no time to adjust your heart, just an open wound where certainty used to live.” This is the kind of pain we are sitting with now.
This is the kind of pain that leaves you disoriented. The kind that makes time feel unreal. Since the announcement of Nothabo Sibanda’s passing, many of us within the WOSSO fellowship have been speaking privately, quietly, almost desperately.
We have been checking in on one another, crying in silence, sharing disbelief in fragmented voice notes and half-finished sentences. We keep asking the same question, even when we know there is no answer: is this real? We are distraught. We are shaken. It feels like a bad dream we cannot wake up from.
This blog is written in one voice, but it carries many. It carries the voices of sisters who are struggling to understand how someone so present, so alive, so full of plans, could simply be gone. Writing this feels like making something final that still feels violently wrong in our bodies and spirits.
I believe many of us did not want to write about this at all. And yet, the fact that these words exist is proof of something painful and unavoidable: sometimes, grief forces acceptance before the heart is ready. Writing this means accepting the unacceptable.
Nothabo Sibanda was not just a fellow in our space. She was a champion of our advocacy efforts, a consistent supporter, a woman who believed deeply in collective struggle and sisterhood. She showed up with humility and quiet strength, never louder than others, yet always deeply felt.
She did not need to dominate a room to be present in it. Her presence mattered. And now, her absence is deafening.
For me, this loss cuts in a way I did not expect. Nothabo and I were not close in the beginning, and that truth matters. Our bond was not instant or performative. It was not built on convenience or proximity. It grew slowly and honestly over the last five months, during a time when she was preparing to move to Cape Town.
What began as practical conversations about accommodation slowly became something deeper — trust, vulnerability, and sisterhood. We were becoming friends in real time, not in memory.
As she searched for a place to stay, we spoke often. She shared her worries about South Africa, about safety, about crime, about the harsh realities that many of us are forced to navigate, including xenophobia. She was not naïve. She was thoughtful, cautious, and deeply human.
We spoke honestly about how hard Cape Town can be, how expensive it is, how the city can make you feel unwelcome even when you are simply trying to breathe and build a life. I promised her that we would figure it out together.
At some point, the room she had secured no longer made sense. The rent felt unjustifiable, especially since she was only going to be on campus on Mondays. I suggested that she move in with me — not casually, but carefully — because it felt like the right thing to do. It came from care, from protection, from knowing that she did not need to navigate this transition alone.
She had already paid rent at the other place, so we started laughing and trying to cook up a story to tell the landlord. We schemed like sisters do, joking about how we would explain this sudden change without getting into trouble. There was so much laughter in those conversations. Real laughter. The kind that makes you forget, briefly, how heavy the world can be.
When I showed her pictures of my flat, she loved it immediately. The space. The privacy. The possibility of rest. We made real plans. She was going to arrive on the 7th, and she said she would pop in properly on the 9th. These were not distant dreams. They were recent, tangible plans. The kind of plans you make when you believe you have time.
Nothabo was funny in the most effortless way. Just days before she passed, she saw a video I had posted on my status and messaged me jokingly, saying, “Hey wena Makhosi, I have been looking for a man and I am not lucky. You need to throw some bones and tell me where my Prince Charming is.” We laughed so much.
As we went on and on about how expensive Cape Town is, aI joked that one day the city would start charging us just for laughing too loudly and breathing too freely. It felt light. It felt ordinary. It felt safe.
And that is what breaks my heart the most.
I was talking to her just the other day. We were laughing just the other day. We were planning just the other day. Sudden death does not give you the dignity of distance. It does not soften memories. It freezes them exactly where they are, leaving you trapped between what was and what was supposed to be.
Since the news broke, many of us have struggled to sleep. Some of us felt a heaviness even before we knew. Others refused to believe it, reaching out in disbelief, hoping for a response that would undo the truth. We are still trying to reconcile the woman we were laughing with days ago with the reality we are now being asked to accept.
Within WOSSO, Nothabo was also a mother. And here, the grief deepens into something almost unbearable. She leaves behind a young child who will now grow up without her. There are losses that words cannot carry, and this is one of them. As one painful truth reminds us, “A child who loses a mother does not lose love — they lose the person who taught them how to feel safe in the world.” The thought of that absence follows us into the quiet moments. It sits with us. It aches.
Nothabo carried motherhood with honesty and pride. She showed us that it was possible to nurture life while still fighting for justice. She was disciplined, grounded, and deeply committed to the work. To our fellowship and to the wider movement, we have lost a soldier.
Nothabo fought with quiet courage and integrity. Her support crossed borders, from Zimbabwe into every space she occupied. She believed in women. She believed in justice. She believed in showing up. And she did.
A soldier does not die when the heart stops beating. A soldier dies when their story is forgotten. Nothabo’s story will not be forgotten. It will live in our advocacy, in our sisterhood, in our laughter, and in the promises we continue to keep for one another. It will live in the way we hold space for grief, for humanity, and for each other.
In the quiet that her absence has left behind, we hold onto the words of an old hymn that feels painfully fitting now: “Be bright in the corner where you are.” Nothabo lived that way among us, lighting spaces with her presence, her laughter, her courage, her care.
And even now, we believe she is still bright. Bright in heaven, where her spirit rests. Bright here on earth, in the work she touched, the people she loved, and the sisterhood that will continue to carry her light forward, even in our sorrow.
Sisi Nothabo, we were not ready. We are still not ready. You were loved deeply, and you will be missed endlessly.
Lala ngokuthula sisi. Sizakukhumbula kakhulu.
Rest in peace, sister. We will carry you.
