This is the text of the eulogy delivered by Soyisile Pono at the memorial service for his father Samuel Mxolisi Pono on 4 October 2025 in Cape Town
Thank you for being here today - to stand with us to grieve with us, and celebrate the life of a man who gave us so much.
We are gathered to honour utatau uSmanuel Mxolisi Pono, uMtehmbu, uDlomo, Madiba, uYem Yem, uNqololmsila, uSophityo, Uvelebembenstsela, uZondwa, oZondwa Zintyababa zingasoze zimense nto.
Son of Queenstown. And a soul who lived, transformed, and gave with deep purpose.
He was many things to many people – Sam, Mxolisi, Mr Pono, bra Mxi, Ta Sam, but to us, he was simply uDe.
The Man who Played his heart. From the beginning music was a part of who he was. My Dad grew up in a family where music was not just a talent – it was a way of life. Both his mother’s and father’s families were well known for their musical gifts, and that legacy lived on in him. He and his siblings were raised in a home where melodies filled the air and music lived in their hearts.
He often told me stories of his journey into music – stories that always inspired me. Growing up in Queenstown in the 1970s was not easy. Life was tough, opportunities were few, and the road to become a musician was filled with obstacles. But my dad, together with his younger brother, Mlungisi “Goofy” Pono, and their friends, carried a dream inside them that nothing could shake.
They would practice anywhere they could – on the streets, in backyards, even in abandoned houses, It didn’t matter that the roof was leaking or that the walls were falling apart. What mattered was the sound, the rhythm, and the joy they shared when they played. Instruments were scarce, so when one of them managed to get hold of a horn, a drum, or a guitar, they all shared it. They taught each other, corrected each other, and pushed one another to grow.
He would tell me how they chased after music in whatever form they could find it – old records, tapes from great jazz musicians, or even just hearing something on the radio and trying to play it back by ear. They studied those sounds, rewinding again and again, until their fingers could match the melodies.
It was never easy, but they had the passion, they had each other, and they had a burning love for music that carried them through.
My Dad used to laugh when he told me how, no matter the hardship, they always found a way to play. Sometimes they had no proper chairs, sometimes, no electricity, sometimes no working instruments – but they played anyway. That’s who they were: young dreamers with music in their blood. They turned struggle into rhythm and hardship into harmony.
Those early days shaped not only his music but his character. They taught him resilience, creativity and the power of brotherhood.
In our home, his music was the background to life; early mornings, quiet nights, laughter-filled afternoons.
What made my father extraordinary wasn’t just his talent but his honesty. His courage to face himself. Like many men of his generation he faced many difficult challenges, but he never allowed them to define him. That took strength – quiet, steady, powerful strength. He taught us that a man is not made perfect by never failing, but by rising again and again with grace and truth.
In 1973 he travelled overseas - not for wealth but to listen, to learn and understand how people around the world were healing from division. When he came home he devoted himself to reconciliation. He worked to bridge the divides – racial, spiritual and generational. He cared particularly about those who were overlooked: communities in pain, voices not being heard.
He did not shout. He did not seek the spotlight. He just did the work with compassion, commitment and clarity.
At the heart of everything, he was a family man. He met and married my mother – a gentle and strong woman. Together they built a home, grounded in love and respect. And to all of us he was a guiding light. Above all, he loved people, truly, no matter who you were or where you came from. He treated you like you mattered. He had a way of making anyone feel like family, whether he had known you for 10 years or 10 minutes.
We had the best conversations. Sometimes we’d agree, sometimes we’d argue, but it was always rich, always respectful. I’ll miss all those debates, more than I can say.
There are so many things I could say about him, but what stands out most is the love and generosity he carried with him everyday.
Though we have lost you in the physical sense, I know deep in my heart that that spirit never dies. Dad, your body may be at rest but your voice, your laughter, your strength lives on in all of us.
English