300 days of LOCKDOWN
It has been a trying time since March last year when the coronavirus first hit SA shores and experts reflect on the trials and tribulations of the past 300 days under the various levels of lockdown.
Covid took my friend. For three weeks he was in a death battle with this virus and he lost – with no wife to hold his hand, no kids to hug him, no friends to whisper in his ear that he is so much more than just a good doctor.
He died all alone and, being a Hindi – “albeit a naughty one, I married a Muslim” – was buried all alone. I couldn’t sing his praises; no women allowed at the grave. In fact, when I got the news five hours after his death, he was already covered with red soil.
It’s only words, but Jay needs a eulogy; my eulogy.
He needs to hear that I know he singled me out for a quick chat even when his mansion was overrun with activists and Who’s Whos. It never was a “and how are the kids?” chat. It was a “you look tired; talk to me” chat while he tops up the red he always kept handy for when I pop in.
He needs to know that he was the strong shoulder that allowed me to cave for weeks after Hubby died. “No advice. Just let go,” he told me quietly.
And how many times did he slip this widow money. “Keep it. You need it,” he said every time I wanted to pay him back.
How many times did he whip out his stethoscope and push medicine from his home surgery into my hand not asking a cent, giggling furiously when I tried to push at least a red note in his top pocket.
He needs to know that I loved his fight: from poor kid to first pharmacist, then fully fledged doctor; the hell the Kensingtonians put him and his family through when they first moved into a “white” suburb “with the written permission of a white man, but that didn’t stop them from every morning upending their black bins in my driveway. Every morning…”
But he wasn’t a fighter, just accepting of all – except racists: “This coolie will come and moer you now” he told a blatant boertjie straight.
For years I had him and his beautiful family around our Christmas Eve table – and how he loved Christmas – but not the last one. “Covid and all and all.”
I feel cheated. Covid cheated me. There is no closure. There’s only fear, because even my friend is now just a statistic.
But he needs to hear… Jay, you were a good, good man.