I thought I would find and connect with Riky Rick’s sadness and pain when I so desperately wanted the book Dearest MaRiky. I thought it would openly share what made him feel like he couldn’t go on in this realm. Because I wanted to connect with him on that level.

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I believe there’s a kind of bravery in knowing what you want and doing it with conviction. I’m not condoning suicide — not at all. But I say this as someone who’s stood on that edge. A step away.

I know how shame and struggle can weigh on you until you feel like disappearing is the only relief.
Riky did that.

It’s a mad place to be — especially when you’ve shown up as a different version of yourself for so long.

The contrast is heartbreaking.

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Well — instead — I learned a lot about the woman who bore him. And about the woman who raised her. The journeys she walked, and therefore the world she created for Rikhado and his siblings.

She went to the same school as Khanyi — Inanda Seminary. That excited me!

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I respect that Louisa felt the need to tell her story. To retrace her steps. Not necessarily to figure out what she did wrong, but to uncover what had pained her most — to explore the influences that shaped her, that guided how she moved through the world, and how she interacted with her children and with others.

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Louisa moved Riky and his brothers all over the world. On the surface, I’d consider that a privilege. But most of my peers say that kind of constant moving can feel like instability. It teaches you that you — and maybe only your family — are the only constants. Everyone else? They change. Eventually, they leave.

(My lil take —They don’t, by the way. I don’t think so. So don’t fear making connections or being yourself fully out of the anxiety that it won’t last.)

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Anyway — there’s a gentle moment where she speaks of her son Sheikani, who cried for everything — and how she wasn’t frustrated or annoyed by it. She connected with her children in such a thoughtful, philosophical way. That was special.

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I was also intrigued by Louisa’s achievements. They reminded me of myself.

I started off as a people-pleaser. An overachiever. Maybe I’m still that for my mom — the least problematic one. The child no one has to worry about. That was me.

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Until I stopped subscribing to that role.
But some of that person is still in me.

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One of the most staggering revelations in the book is that Louisa only realized she had been raped years after it happened. She had gone through life without fully knowing. That shook me.
She carried so much trauma for so long. And she still showed up.

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As a parent, I wonder what it feels like to witness your child in deep pain.
To see the one you were meant to protect — the one you were sent to care for — feel they can no longer carry it.

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Louisa wrote:

“We are many things. It is even true that we are everything.”

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That stayed with me. So did the way she embraced her children’s tears without frustration or annoyance. That softness. That clarity. And I think she did the same even in his death — or for his death. She received him. His choice. She respects it.
She sees her children fully. She sees Rikhado. Outside of herself. Despite everything.

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This book connects you with her — Louisa Zondo. More than anything.

What I sought when I opened it — I didn’t find. Not yet.
But it will come.
Books do that.
Art does that.