My spirit soars when the sun sets

The late Owen Williams – may perpetual light shine on his soul and on all the faithfully departed – writing in these pages once said: It is, quite simply, that I always feel very cheerful in the morning. If necessary, I, also defensively, justify this by Joy cometh in the morning. I do not know why, but about just everyone I have known, some dramatically so, is the opposite.

I did not know Owen personally, but having read his column with joy most Sunday afternoons, I grew to like the personality that exuded in his articles. He was an honest writer, full of humility, and devoid of the regrettable habit in our media of disguising devious snobbery with wit. When I heard of his death, I stifled a sob like I’ve never done for any writer before.

I must admit though that he would have counted me among those who are the opposite of a shining spirit in the mornings. To say I’m not a morning person is an understatement. My seven-year-old daughter, as children often do, brilliantly picks up these things. She understands that mornings are not a right time to approach daddy, especially about a request.

I’m more of a twilight person. Something about the sun bleeding its last rays at the end of the day lifts my spirit. Perhaps twilight for me comes with a hope of meeting the only stranger in Jerusalem who’ll explain the scriptures with burning words in my heart. You could say then I’m an abide with me, for the day is far gone kind of person, burning hope on the road to Emmaus for the strike of splendour among my shadows at the break of bread.

But that may be a little too prosaic. It is also because I was born into the tumultuous times of South African townships, where going out to meet the day required more than bravery. But that would be short-circuiting my gestalt. It could be that laziness has something to do with the clutches of Mephistopheles we feel in the morning.

What I can say is that most minds work better in conditions that are conducive to their habits, or rather character traits. If, for instance, you have fond memories of your family life around the breakfast table, naturally mornings would be the time you most associate with goodness. Or if you knew the fiery blaze on top of mountains spelt the return from work of the mother you woke to find gone in the morning, then twilight becomes the time of joy for you.

Memory is always subordinated to the emotion that informs it, and it is mostly an extension of our childhood. Ernest Renan endorsed the idea, even though he was arguing for national memory. He insisted that in the absence of the sacrificed, there can be no nation: Where national memories are concerned, [recollections of] grief [are] of more value than triumphs, for they impose duties, and require a common effort. I guess the likes of Steve Biko stand as sacrificial lambs in our national memory.

In South Africa, we are still chafing beneath the rough seas of our memory. Memory is our bank balance; without it we’re bankrupt, viciously solipsistic and ignorant beyond redemption. There’s no doubt that our national past is mostly a bruising place to be, but it is the measure of our character how we face up to it.

I certainly do not want to sound unctuous or sanctimonious. I write these words with a circle of fire rising from the ocean with intense silence of Elijah’s cave as a tribute to the memory of great writer who loved to laugh in the morning. Here’s to you, Mr Owen Williams. Hamba neminyanya! (Go with the saints!) You were indeed, in the words of Shelly, A splendour among shadows, a bright blot upon this gloomy scene.

Pray that your spirit sets up shop in our hearts.