My Friend John.

A few years ago, My Friend John was murdered in his hotel room in Johannesburg.

He was on a business trip, had recently started working for his dad, and after celebrating the birth of his brand new niece, had gone to Joburg to pay some staff and contractors. He had gone to the bank, drawn money for pay packets, and John and the briefcase had been followed back to his hotel room. He was smothered with a Holiday Inn pillow, and the briefcase vanished. Everyone was shocked, but no-one knew anything. He was 33. And that was that.

But My Friend John had been extraordinary to me.
I met him one bleary-eyed morning, after a grueling Saturday night shift at a trendy nightclub in Cape Town where I worked weekend nights, in a chi-chi bar to pay the rent for my tiny one bedroom apartment in the City. John was a "night worker" too -- he tended bar around the corner, and rented a room in a large commune in the city, along with a collection of transient night service staff that kept Cape Town buzzing after dark.

We were chatting in the ramshackle living room, hyped on coffee, fatigue, and the remnants of pumping music and the revelry of others. The first time I saw John, he was in his underwear, but greeted a room full of strangers with a grin, completely at ease.
I knew I would like him.

We became friends. We went places, on our nights off.
He would show up at my apartment in a borrowed tux, make me put on a showy dress, and we would drive to the fanciest, most exclusive hotels in the City. At the gates, John would emphatically speak an earnest gibberish, vaguely Italian, to confuse the liveried guards into letting us into the exclusive grounds.
Somehow, it always worked and we would sweep into majestic clubs and hideaways for the rich and famous. There we would drink, dance and befriend some of the legitimate guests. The party would begin, and the evening would be boisterous and giddily fun. John could twirl a girl like no-one else I have ever met.

Some days he would show up with a six pack of beer and a bag of trashy novels. We would lie in the heat on my apartment balcony, drink beer and read until our heads hurt.
We would swap bar stories. He always liked my new boyfriends before they had proven they were worthwhile. He frequently dated interesting, hysterical women. He called me "Sista" and meant it. He lubricated my broken heart with tequila when my boyfriend du jour left the country, and carried me home, holding my discarded shoes when the tequila smacked me between the eyes. He made me chili scrambled eggs for breakfast.
He didn't care what I looked like. He only cared that I was happy.

We took care of each other. I, alone in a city and self supporting at 22. John, alone and self supporting at 22. We grabbed life firmly and lived with passion. Once he took my wide-eyed adolescent baby brother to a wild New Year's Eve bash, winking at me as he carefully slipped a few condoms in Francois' party shirt pocket. They returned in the early hours, grinning, condom wrappers still in place.

We got older, established serious relationships and careers. There was no longer place for our pure non-judgmental friendship in our new worlds. Try explaining it to a really significant other. The euphoria and bravado of youth had passed.

And then the article in the paper. Really brief. I made some calls and only heard confusion and pain. No answers. But I dream of My Friend John. He is alive and vibrant and laughing, and when I wake up I can honestly say that I feel that I have seen him again and can feel his bear hug comfort.