Phums’s titles.
Today I was reminded of my friend, the writer, Phumlani Pikoli.
Though he is departed, he is never far from my thoughts. I know others feel the same way. He continues to inspire me and I am at times quite overwhelmed by the ways in which his connections and connectivity still resonate in my life, both creatively and personally.
When he passed, I wrote this for the art collective I am a part of, and which he encouraged me to join, ‘Wombanifesto’. I don’t have many words right now because I am missing him so much but I wanted to share something of him, and the impact he had on my life.
So forgive me for resharing old words.
‘A message from Megan Ross
Phumlani wrote as if his hands were on fire. He made, crafted, drew and created with speed and energy, tackling everything from racism in rugby to mental health with his signature disregard for sacred cows and that almost-childlike delight in colour and experimentation that we all loved about him. There was nothing I loved more than spending hours with Phums, sending memes, sharing music or getting into a DMC about all that we loved, detested and thought about. When I was assaulted by a doctor in Johannesburg, he was the first person I told, despite having only met him a day earlier. He took this in and supported me emotionally for the duration of my stay in the city. His empathy was considerable, and from that moment I felt an absolutely unbreakable bond with him. A year or so later, when I was having panic attacks about this event, I WhatsApp called him from Zanzibar, where I was attending a writing workshop. He picked up, even though he was in the club, and ran outside to talk. The Wi-Fi on my side was terrible, so he kept calling, over and over again, so that we could have snatches of conversation in the moments that the connection allowed. It didn’t matter that he was busy, or with other people, or that he was having fun.
He picked up.
When Sven Christian (known as Pooch to everyone who know-knows him) sought out writers to write about their impressions on Dumile Feni’s artwork, You wouldn’t know God if he spat in your eye, he asked both myself and Phumlani to contribute a piece.
At the time, I was super broke and couldn’t pay for the flight to Joburg to see the artwork. Phumlani offered to give me his honorarium so that I could fly up. When I didn’t eventually go, he called me to tell me about Feni’s scroll, and what it was like being there. I felt the scroll through Phumlani’s impression of it. And I think that in this way, so much of the art and media and literature I’ve consumed in recent years has been filtered through Phumlani’s gaze. Phumlani offered to be my eyes in the city, at events, with people I desperately wanted to be around but couldn’t because I live in East London. He saw and translated and gave. He made magic out of the world around him.
In the spaces between the medium, event or word, and the moment when it reached me in animated WhatsApps or multiple phone calls, Phumlani broken-telephoned any gaps in his memory with his imagination. This was a function of his massive generosity of spirit, and also his desire to connect everyone he knew to everything he was discovering, including other people. In the wake of his passing, I’ve felt held by the community of Phumlani’s friend, and this is one of the ways he keeps giving to us. Keeps bringing people together and keeps creating community.
I don’t know if I will ever truly articulate what Phumlani Pikoli means to me, as an artist, a writer and as his friend. His impact on my life has been profound. I only hope he knows how adored and loved he is. When asking a close friend how to cope with Phumlani’s passing, she told me this:
“You let him continue to live… through your projects. Be his hands. Be his light.”
I think Phums will continue to bring a supernova-amount of light to the world, so there’s no need. But I’m happy to join you all in being his hands for a little while.
Megan Ross, 2021 (East London)’