BONA, derived from the Zulu greeting to a multitude of people, 'Sanibona' - directly translated as 'we see you' - forms the premise of this publication, by Tebo Mpanza
This weekend, my family and I are flying to South Africa. I love this trip. There’s no place like SA. I love going back home—there’s always something to look forward to.
The last time we went, Becky and I took Keith, Olivia, Jay, and Gabz—each visiting for the first time. We did Johannesburg and Cape Town. They met my people. We spent time in the bush, ate good food, lived like locals in Cape Town. It was unreal.
I’ve packed for this journey before. I’ve done this trip many times. But this time It feels different. I feel different. It’s only been a couple of years since our last visit, but I’ve grown. Changed vocation. Moved cities. Became a father. Fought some quiet battles. Lost some things, gained perspective. Done some deep work. Recognised my shortcomings further.
But the real difference this time? I’m taking my son, Maximilian, to South Africa for the first time. We wanted to go earlier in the year, but it didn’t happen. Life got in the way. But it felt important—urgent, even—to make it happen now. So we shifted things. Made it work. Because this matters. To me. To us.
This time, we’re headed to Polokwane—where my paternal side is from—then down to Durban, where I grew up.
Maxi’s about to meet people who love him, even though they’ve never met him. They’ll speak isiZulu and Sepedi to him. He’ll be passed around. He’ll be named, sung over, laughed with. He’ll be held by the people who once held me.
And still, I go into this trip knowing there will be some disappointment. Because since when is it ever 100% a good time when you spend time with family? Family can love you the deepest—and hurt you the most. We hold each other in high regard and expect the best, forgetting we’re all just human. We pretend. We dodge the elephant in the room and hope it disappears. It doesn’t.
Me? I like to address the elephant. I had to do it this week with a Karen in the office who, instead of saying something to me directly, kept turning around—nearly broke her neck—because I was apparently chewing my apple too loud. I had to say something. Office beef. Never mind my girl in the shared workspace—I’ll get on a plane just to address the elephant.
But with family, it’s different. You have to ask questions softly, subtly. Read the room. Find the right moment. This trip will be family-heavy. There will be triggers. Because when you return to the place of your youth—the place that formed you—you remember things. Memories. Moments. Wounds you thought had healed.
You remember who didn’t show up.
You remember what was said.
You remember what was never said.
In many ways, they’re strangers now. Life has shaped us all differently. We’ve matured in different ways, absorbed experiences differently, grown from different soil. The challenge is to hold that tension—and still choose love. Still choose grace. Because I need them. And I want to hear it: "I love you. I’m proud of you." That stuff still matters, no matter how old you get.
I feel like I’m going as a missionary in a lot of ways. But I’m also going as a son. A cousin. A friend. And this time—a father. That’s different.
There will be good times too. My family will meet my son. That will mean the world. I look forward to having a steak or two with Malume. I’ll ask questions, try to make more sense of my stock, map the lineage that shaped me. I’ll reflect. I might cry. I’ll definitely laugh. And I’ll hold close something I heard last Sunday at church—a message from Dr. Amy Orr-Ewing that wrecked me in the best way. She preached from 1 Samuel 17:54–58, where Saul turns to David and asks, “Whose son is this?” Four verses—but that one question repeats three times. And don’t get me started on the mind-blowing Hebrew Amy unpacked about that repetition.
That question has been echoing in me since. Because that’s the real theme of this trip. That’s the real work I’m doing. Sonship. I’m learning to ask it every day again. To remember who I am. To remember whose I am.
See you on the other side.
Safe travels brother