It was November of 2004. I was late and in a panic. The tarmac at Johannesburg’s O.R. Tambo international airport was soaked because of foul weather and our flight was backed up in the landing queue. Immigration was a nightmare. 'Visa? How long are you staying? Where are you staying? What are you here for? How much money do you have? You must leave in 14 days!' Rubber-stamp thud like a baton stick on and run.

Never one to miss a thing, he nabbed me as I walked stealthily into the room thinking I could sneak in unnoticed. Thud. Thud. Thud. The last drops of rain from my umbrella fell on the carpet. 'Welcome Bella. Take a seat,' or something convivial like that. During the meeting’s tea-break he headed towards me. I was still cowering in my pity corner as I thought he was the sort of man to hand out a delayed form of discipline. I was certain I was going to get a lecture on meeting etiquette. But not Van Zyl. His warm hand outstretched, he gave me a greeting that will go down as one of the warmest and sincerest I have ever had.

I hope I never forget the comfort of that firm grip. I would later learn it belonged to an ace rugby player, someone who could have taken the game professionally, but luckily for me, chose a different path. With that handshake came the biggest smile, reaching all the way to his eyes, and a twinkling out of them.

He was wearing a white and brown cotton shirt of the pan-African tradition, the neat fabric of the hemline of the sleeves just grazing his rough elbows. The idea stuck. Since then my male friends get one regularly from me.

Van Zyl was generous of spirit. My country was going through difficult times. 'It’s going to get worse before it gets better. But don’t doubt it. It will definitely get better. Zimbabwe will be the amazing country it should be', he said with such prescient confidence, I frankly thought some of his nuts and bolts were coming undone.

In the years to follow, he would be a constant source of encouragement, a kind man, of the way your maternal grandmother is when you are having a hard time with something she knows you can accomplish. A phone call would come through to me every so often. 'I am just checking on you, no pressure,' his voice would boom, not with authoritarianism, but to give you a big boost. I could always tell there was a smile on the other side, trying to ease my pain.

He was a role model in autonomy, Van Zyl. If an institution or organisation did not work for him, he wasn’t afraid to step out of it, and create something of his own. He believed in human agency and worked tirelessly for it. He would craft a niche, find a place where his exuberance and intellect could always thrive, and where his ideas would rapidly take shape. IDASA is a poignant example.

He tools were optimism and a positive spirit that all would turn out right. I never quite figured where his reserves of relentless hope came from when the rest of us were slipping into deep caves of distress and despair. Once he had my email address, the reading instructions followed. 'This might inspire you,' was the simple message.

Occasionally a text message would come through – 'Hang in there, don’t give up' – especially in 2006 when we were on trail for our belief in a society where the airwaves belong to all of us, not just a select few. The Radio Voice of the People case was arduous. Some friends chose to distance themselves from us because we were seen as 'too controversial … too confrontational'. Others spoke with their body language, or just became distant. Rather than play hide and seek, Van Zyl compiled a docket for me of case material on how South Africa ensured the devolution of the airwaves.

In the years that I was born, Dr Frederik Van Zyl Slabbert was already leader of the opposition in the South African parliament of mid-1975. A decade later he was working as far a field as Dakar, Senegal, paving the way for South Africa’s talks about a transition to a plural and democratic state.

'Slabbert gave me all his wisdom,' says Davie Malungisa, executive director of IDAZIM, a think tank that we set up as quickly as Slabbert has said the name. 'I think what Zimbabwe needs right now is an IDAZIM, an independent place for dialogue and capacity building to play the role that Idasa did during our own transition,' he’d said with a sweep of his hands. And that was another of his abundant gifts – ideas. They would spew from his mind with his characteristically burly lucidity.

Dr Frederik Van Zyl Slabbert’s death on 14 May is not only a loss to his family, his friends and the society of South Africa. It is a loss to those of us in Africa who, through his selfless and unpaid contribution, learned from him and keep alive our beliefs in the possibility of attaining open, tolerant, just and equitable societies in our lifetime. As the founding African board member for the Open Society Institute’s (OSI) southern Africa foundation, he brought to our soils Karl Popper’s philosophy and expanded the depth and breadth of the work of the Soros Foundation’s OSI footprint across the African continent.

And so, as we fly our personal flags at half-mast in honour of Van Zyl, we no doubt feel a deep personal loss. Our ache is dulled a little by the knowledge that bighearted as he was, Slabbert gave to our world his dues, and so much, much more.

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