John David Hackel
February 24, 1964 - March 14, 1985
Mouse over this image to see Nkosane's (Little John David's) baby sister, Dayo, as she grew. She was just an adolescent. Twelve years old. Had led such a sheltered life in Mtoto House and she was totally unprepared for the chaos that transformed the family so dramatically. Yet still she rose! Alkebu-lan Academy prepared our children beyond whatever we could have done on our own.
John David Hackel (whose native name is Nkosane) was born on February 24, 1964 in Riverside, California. He was born at March Air Force Base. He was the sixth child born to Airman Walter Douglas Hackel and Hester Yvonne Johnson Hackel.
When he was just a tiny newborn, his sister Dawn (Marini), who was only three years old at the time, begged to hold him. I placed him in her arms on the sofa, and she sang this song to him. "Little John David went to the store and he can't waa-alk." David cooed and crooned as she sang to him and we were amazed that she could make such a melodic song at her tender age.
Soon, the family returned to its hometown Detroit, Michigan in 1965. Being the youngest son you would think he would have been spoiled, but he was the sweetest child in the whole bunch. He attended Guest Elementary School and enjoyed going on beach and park outings with the family, eating barbecue and other goodies.
Nkosane joined the Shrine of the Black Madonna of the Pan African Orthodox Christian Church along with his mother and siblings in January of 1973 where they were among the first who moved into the newly-acquired BCN National Training Center and Residence Hall that was formerly the grand Abington Hotel at 700 Seward near Third. He was a member of the church's Alkebu-lan Academy and Student Movement. He made many friends in the church and attended schools in Detroit, Michigan, Houston, Texas and Kalamazoo, Michigan while there with his mother who was a church missionary.
When he became ill shortly after the death of his stepfather, Capt. Karega, many of his friends still came around to support him. I remember especially his closest friends were Omar and his brother Fuindi Dismuke. He and Omar were three months apart in age, and they departed this plane three months apart also, shortly after their 21st birthday.
Nkosane was very creative, he was an excellent cook and he could transform a dreary room with his creative painting designs. In 1983 he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and shortly afterward was in and out of the hospital quite frequently.
His last trip to Glen Eden, an exclusive hospital for the mentally ill, took him on a fatal field trip to Belle Isle where he used to play as a young child. He drowned there in the Detroit River behind the Dossin Boat Museum. At first we did not believe he could have drowned. He was an excellent swimmer. But, we were informed that he was heavily medicated at the time and it appeared he had no idea what he was doing.
Of course we all rushed to the riverside from all parts of town, and the Coast Guard began looking for him, but he was no
where to be seen. We all returned home and gathered at the home of my oldest daughter, Kafi Nana Perry (who is pictured here with her husband Raynard Perry).
My oldest son, Walter Douglas 
Hackel, III, was there with his wife Roslyn, and he, along with cousins, friends and neighbors began searching the city for him. We expected that possibly he may have gotten out of the river and run away and was perhaps with friends. But, he was nowhere to be found. I sat on a sofa in the den staring into space, I had cried until there were no more tears.
Nkosane's next oldest sibling, Diahann (Masika Dara) Hackel Bryant was standing there in the dining room looking lost and unfocused. She was very close to him. She was born in Ankara, Turkey eleven months before him, and she turned 22 the next day, March 15. 
Needless to say many years went by before we were able to celebrate her birthday again. Now, she lives with her husband and two youngest daughters, Zakiya and Kamaria Bryant, on Detroit’s far west side, and has an older married son and five grandchildren.
But, on that fatal day 25 years ago, I looked up and out the window and, lo and behold, there was my son’s face. He was directly outside the window, and he looked exactly like he actually looked in life at that time. Exactly like that picture on the log. He appeared rather immature for his age. The disease made him look like that. But, he was always smiling and pleasant. He smiled at me. “Ma,” he said. “You can tell them to stop looking for me. I drowned. But, I’m alright now.” I continued to look out the window as he began to fade away saying, “Ma, you got to stop grieving and crying now. I'm okay." I got up in a daze and went into the dining room and told my other children and the friends and neighbors who were there, “You can stop looking for him. He’s dead.” For some reason they believed me. They stopped looking. The Coast Guard continued to drag the river looking for him, and the next day they found him. My oldest son, whom we call Doug, was so profoundly struck until although he had been to Vietnam and was a disabled Vietnam veteran, this traumatized him beyond the Vietnam War. I saw him visibly change right before my eyes. His sweet and patient wife Roslyn was a most important part in holding him together because Douglas was literally falling apart. We are all still trying to pull our lives back together. Doug and Roz have now been married for 30 years and live on a beautiful, quiet and peaceful street in Ferndale, Michigan where Roz freely gives her optician skills to the family. Later on, I was sitting near that same window and I looked up and there was my son's face again. I could not control the tears that kept flowing like rivers, so I was still crying when he said to me. “Ma, you’ve got to stop crying.” I looked up at him, he seemed to be about as high as the tree top, but I could see him very clearly. He looked like a 21 year old man should look. In fact, he looked very much like his father did when he was his age
. He also had this amazing air of peace and serenity about him. He told me he loved me, but he had to go. Oh, the pain of wanting him to stay was so severe. But, I felt comforted because I truly believed him this time when he said that he was alright and that we'd meet again.
After the solemn processional from the sanctuary to the waiting limousines we again were approached by grieving friends from as long ago as my childhood. That surprised me because I know I didn't tell anyone. I was unable to communicate intelligently through my wailings. If you can see this website I want to let you konw that I appreciate your presences and spirit as well. I went upstairs to my room and sat on the bed and looked through tear streaked eyes out the window. Suddenly my son’s face again appeared. He had come back for the third time to visit me. He was higher than the tree top. He seemed to be floating in space like a cloud, yet I could still see him as plain as if he was sitting right next to me on the bed. He said, “Ma, I told you to stop grieving and crying.” I looked at his face and he looked so wise, so full of wisdom, so handsome and peaceful. He looked ancient and ageless but he didn't look old. He pointed across the way and I saw some purple and green mountains. He said, “I have to go about my Father’s business. I cannot come back again. I will see you when you die!” And, he drifted off in the direction of the mountains and I have not seen him since.
I remembered a dream that I had when my child was about nine years old. I dreamed that he was just a babe in my arms and my other children and I were running up a mountainside. We were going around and around and up and up. My older children were helping the younger ones and the in-between ones were holding onto my clothes. High up above we saw angels hovering and we were so frightened. In contradiction to the facts, we ran faster and faster and higher and higher, trying to escape the angels who kept flying lower. But, alas, one of the angels swooped down and snatched my baby from my arms and flew up into the sky with him saying these words, "We have to take him now. He was too good for this world." I awoke from the dream that I thought was certainly my worst nightmare crying insanely. It seemed so real -- the details were so vivid -- and I felt the pain of losing my child as surely, I thought, as if I had actually lost him. Perhaps that pain helped to prepare me to withstand the pain of his actual loss.
The service ended and we left the church and got into the funeral limousines. The cars were lined up behind us as far as you could see. I never thanked my brothers and sisters for this tribute, so I hope I am now letting you know that I most sincerely appreciated it although I did not even recognize you at the time. Through my grief I am sure I never even said "Thank you." So, I am saying it now on this website. Some of you are no longer with me either. General Masai Bologun (Cardinal Masai Dismuke) who officiated the service, and Capt. Cheo who played the organ are no longer there. Sis. Ashaki Goree whose beautiful voice lent such a solemn air to the service is no longer with us. Numerous other members were there who are no longer with us, including my mother, Ernestine Nail, Bro. Ola Mwanza (Oscar Hand) the church's first choir director, whose invitation I accepted to visit the church, Col. Kwesi (Vincent Stewart), and our beloved church founder, Jaramogi Abebe Agyeman, who made his transition on February 20, 2000.
Eventually we went to the graveyard where I sat stunned as they lowered my son into the cold dark ground where I knew I would not see him in that form again. Still overcome with grief we returned to his father's house while friends and family ate and drank to show their final respect. But, I remained in the daze until finally, I returned to the home that would no longer have my child in it.
I cannot tell you how much hope that gave me. I know that I will see my son again. No matter how many years I have to remain here on this plain, it will soon be over, and I will be reunited with my son.
Sometimes I wonder what I might have done were it not for my other children, because to tell you the truth, I wanted to die – not to commit suicide – but to be with my child again. However, the thought of leaving my other children was just too much. I could not even think about having them suffer the loss of me, their mother, as well as their brother. There was another daughter in the middle, Deirdre (Mwanaisha) Hackel Bond. She and Dawn "Marini" the writer of the "Little John David" song, were both born in
Deirdre Michelle Hackel Bond is married to Fred Bond III and the mother of Fred IV (Asukile), Jave Bond Johnson (married to Steve)and Janine Bond Lake (married to Anthony).
Their five grandchildren are Dayzon (Z) who lives in Detroit with his father Fred IV (Asukile); Ariyana and Andrew live with their parents Janine and Anthony Lake in St. Joseph, Michigan and Stevie Jr. and Javien live in Schaumberg, Illinois with their parents Jave and Steve Johnson.
Dawn Nicole Hackel Vanover is married to Melvin and the mother of Shani Hackel Mellon (who is married to Daniel) and they are parents of four girls -- Danielle, Dakayla, Deyja and Deanna and one boy Daniel Jr. Marini's son, Robert Wimberly, married Marie and they are parents of Robbie III and baby girl Aubrey. The youngest girl, Tenisha Wimberly, was born on her Uncle Nkosane's birthday, February 24, 1988, three years after his death, and she is a female spitting image of him.
Desiree Yvonne Robinson (Dayo) is the baby and is an executive career professional who lives in Dallas, Texas. She was recently reunited with her sister, Phyllis Yvonne Robinson at their father's funeral.