It has taken me weeks to finally find the words. For days, I couldn't even bring myself to utter his name in past tense.
Writing this blog meant accepting the unbearable—that uBaw'u Mongi Titi, uGcwanini, is gone. And I wasn’t ready. A part of me still isn’t. Because writing this means acknowledging that someone so brave, so alive, so powerful in his presence—has been taken by a violence we all saw creeping, but none of us could stop. I am devastated.
Taxi violence in the Western Cape has become a bloodbath. Every other week we read of more shootings, more torched vehicles, more families left without fathers, brothers, sons. This violence is not random — it is targeted. And it has stolen from us one of the few good men left in this space.
His death ripped open a wound I have been trying so hard to deal with over the past three years. The wound of losing my father. Baw'u Mongi’s death feels like losing a father again. A protector. A believer. A brother.
Baw'u Titi was the Secretary of CATA and an executive member of SANTACO Western Cape. But he was more than a title. He was the thread that tried to hold things together in a world slowly tearing apart. In the heart of a province where taxi violence has long shadowed our streets, Mongi became a quiet warrior for peace.
He dedicated his days and nights to building unity between historically divided taxi associations. He was a peacemaker, an unshakable force—yet gentle in spirit and deeply rooted in community.
I remember how earlier this year, my dreams became haunted by visions I couldn’t explain. I’ve walked this life with a spiritual gift, and when the warnings came, I knew they weren’t just dreams. I’d wake up sweating, anxious. I’d see him in places he shouldn’t be, or surrounded by danger.
I sent him messages. Checked in with him constantly. Especially after that horrifying time earlier in the year when more than 20 taxis were torched in Nyanga. He responded then — said he was okay, that his vehicles had survived the arson attack. I remember breathing a sigh of relief. But still, the visions didn’t stop.
I told him. I told him what I was seeing. And each time, he listened. He would sit quietly, sometimes nodding, sometimes just staring into the distance. I remember he sent me a long voicenote just to say, Zee you are spot on. He confessed that he too had fears. That he’d started avoiding certain events. That he was watching his back.
That he worried for his life but didn’t want to seem weak. He had to appear strong, for everyone. And he did. But behind that strength was a man carrying so much. Too much.
Taxi violence in the Western Cape has become a bloodbath. Every other week we read of more shootings, more torched vehicles, more families left without fathers, brothers, sons. This violence is not random — it is targeted. And it has stolen from us one of the few good men left in this space.
And yet, even in the shadows of fear, Gcwanini made space for others to shine.
He believed in me. In my political dreams. When the world doubted me or when I doubted myself, he was the one saying, "Keep going." He opened platforms for me. When I was campaigning during the 2024 general elections, he made space for me—me, a young woman in politics. He allowed me to speak, to engage thousands of people in the taxi ranks, in events, in moments where others would have shut the door.
He introduced me to leaders and opened doors for me alongside giants like General Bantu Holomisa (UDM), Bonginkosi Madikizela (DA), Unathi Ntame (EFF), Marius Fransman (PMC), Ndithini Thyido (ANC) and more. He told me never to shrink. He reminded me that I had a voice and that it mattered.
Our bond wasn’t just political—it was spiritual. There was an invisible thread between us that went beyond rallies and radio interviews. I dreamt of him often. And those dreams were usually terrifying. He confirmed every single one. Every. Single. One. We knew something was coming. We prayed, we hoped, but maybe some things are just inevitable.
Beyond supporting me, uBaw'u Mongi was a champion for all women in the taxi industry. He recognized the unique challenges women faced in a male-dominated space and worked quietly but firmly to create opportunities for them to participate, lead, and be heard.
Many women owe their foothold in the taxi ranks to his advocacy and protection. He made sure their voices were included at tables where decisions were made—something that is still rare and precious in that world.
When I joined the IFP, he stood behind me. He told me, "Zintle, I will organise that meeting for you with taxi leaders. You deserve it." He supported my move without hesitation. He was always rooting for me—loudly, proudly, unwaveringly.
I remember when he invited me to a powerful prayer event between CATA and CODETA, two of the largest and historically rival taxi associations in the Western Cape. I stood there, one of the only women, because he believed I belonged in that space. And I did—because he created that space for me.
What people might not see in headlines is that Baw'u Mongi was a man of peace. A man who loved his family deeply. The pride in his children—oh, he showed them off with such joy. His WhatsApp statuses were filled with their smiles, their growth, their light. He loved his family fiercely. He carried the weight of so many things—but his family remained his joy.
Losing Baw'u Mongi is more than a personal tragedy—it is a loss for the taxi industry, for the Western Cape, for all of us fighting to bring peace to chaotic places. His death is a reminder that the violence in the taxi industry is not abstract. It has names. It has faces. It leaves families shattered and communities broken. It steals from us the very people who fight hardest for peace.
Mongi Titi, Gcwanini, was one of those people.
I write this now with trembling hands, and a heart heavy with grief. But I also write with love. A deep, deep love for a man who gave so much of himself to others. A man who believed in women like me. A man who stood up when it was dangerous to do so. A man whose laughter, counsel, and quiet strength I will carry with me forever.
This blog is my cry. My prayer. My farewell.
To the man who supported me when he didn’t have to. To the man who believed in my leadership.To the man who, even in a male-dominated industry like the taxi sector, made room for women like me.
Rest in power, Baw'u Mongi. You were one of the good ones. And I miss you. Fiercely.
Good night Gcwanini.
