It was with great sadness that I learned from a news report that Rob Amato had died in a traffic collision last Saturday.
At first it was as if I was reading a dispatch from some far-flung place, an almost staccato offering, cut to the bare bones, point blank, with the body count, a few lines of the incident that caused the tragedy, wrapped in an abbreviated biography of the unfortunate victim.
On an ordinary day I would be able to read such a report and move on with the business at hand - of taking in the day's news, washed down with a glass of tap water and a few tablespoons of salt.
However, this was no ordinary report, and the victim no ordinary man, because I found myself unable to proceed from page four, clutching the broadsheet and reading that slim offering over and over, with a deep sense of melancholy taking hold of me.
In a country so obsessed with race, with matters of race, with pedigree, melanin quotient and an almost obscene need to lash out at anyone or anything that seems to obstruct individual's or group's advancement, Rob Amato represented a refreshing counterpoint, because he was involved, compassionate, interested and completely at peace with himself, a fearless optimist whose company was a joy and an education.
I first encountered Rob Amato in 1995, a couple of weeks after I returned to South Africa after an absence of 15 years. He met me at the door of his home opposite the railway line in Observatory with a smile and a welcoming greeting.
I told him I had come to visit his son, Ben, and also his Angolan friend, Adamu. He said they were expected shortly and invited me to join him for a glass of good red wine, some cheese and some bread which he said he had just baked.
Several hours later we were still sitting there, in the kitchen, polishing off red wine and fresh bread.
In that short space of time we had travelled across the world, gone through a compact shortcut of South Africa's recent and ancient history, discussed the merits and relevance of Sartre, lamented the demise of the Space theatre, contextualised Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, speculated on the possibilities of global economic collapse, interrogated the viability of the RDP, shared anecdotes about some members of the new ruling elite, listened to a good selection of jazz and enjoyed moments when the silence was enough.
It was just after the Ides of March and Julius Caesar, betrayal, conspiracy theory and the theatre dovetailed seamlessly into a discussion of his passion, art imitating life and life imitating art.
By the time I took my leave, my intellect had been nourished, my anxiety at coming home eased.
That's how he was: nutrient, a wealth of information, a rusty voice in the body of a South African who was world-wise, travelled, the bespectacled professor of Plato's republic, laughing at the world around him, through a mop of unkempt hair and philosopher's beard.
Years later, while working on Doenit, an avant garde publication that served as sustenance to many a refugee from the realities of the transitional state, it was Rob who helped me through the cathartic project of processing my experience as an investigator for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
He tempered my bitterness with humour, helped me focus my anger, and provided me with the tools to relocate the idealism and optimism of my youth.
Later his column, Separation of Powers, served as an essential filtering mechanism for understanding the developmental South African state.
His writing reminded me of the role of the journalist in society, to record events, to reflect the salient essence of our common humanity and to speak truth to power, with equivocation.
Our world is bereft now that a voice of reason has been silenced, and we have been robbed of the truly colourful co-travellers in our search for a South Africa that accepts and values all its people.
Go well, my friend.
