It only started to sink in two weeks after my mother had died that she was, indeed, no more. The lily of my valley was gone … forever. The moon of my darkest nights, the star that brightened my days had succumbed so suddenly, leaving us wounded for life.

I woke up very early. The past few days had weighed like a huge log on our shoulders – mine and my grandmother’s – because my mother’s death was just one catastrophe.

To our horror my younger sister had taken ill just after my mother passed away. She was coughing badly when we sent her to the hospital and, sure enough, she tested positive for corona. I was very worried about her. Ever since she was born – 18 years ago – she had suffered from bad asthma.

After that Khulu and I had to carry on isolating and be tested for covid. We were negative, thank God. But all this had delayed the funeral.

My grandmother and I had to be strong, and console each other as we went about the arrangements. Fortunately my only friend who had stuck with me during these trying times, Mpumezo, was also there to support us. Whenever I needed something to be done and for some reason I was unable to attend to it, he stepped up.

As for Lisa – now my ex-girlfriend! – she hadn’t even bothered to reply to my messages. I was so disappointed in her. It seemed as if most people around thought we had all had contracted leprosy as soon as my mother died from corona, and my sister was struggling for her life in the very same hospital.

But now Khulu and I had to make the final arrangements for the funeral, due to be held the following day. I knew I must be strong, even though I felt weak to the core.

I had to go to the market and get fresh vegetables and some meat for the four ladies who were helping us in the kitchen. I also needed to go to the bank to see if any money had been released from my mother’s funeral policy. The people who were to clean the yard and paint the windows and erect the tent were coming at around 10 o’clock that morning and I had to leave money with Khulu to pay them.

Mrs Mbalula, who had a tent and chair hiring business, had been cashing in. Business had been booming ever since the corona virus had started sweeping people away to the land of the dead.

“How many chairs do you think you will need, Ondela?” she had asked me. “The minimum is still 50 people, right?” Before I could say anything she continued: “But, truth be told Ondela, I don’t think many people will come to the funeral … I will send you 20 chairs.”

“So … so …” I didn’t know exactly what to say to her; words had left me.

“Yes, Ondela. Everyone knows that your mother, died of covid-19. Everyone knows that Mariza was a nurse and at high risk. People are scared to come by your house and help out. Actually, they are following orders from Rama,” she said with a slight chuckle, as that is what people affectionately called President Ramaphosa.

“But Khulu and I have tested neg–” I tried to say, but she would not listen, and went on talking over me.

“Anyway, do what you think is right. I will forward you the invoices. The chairs come with the mic and the sound system. Remember to keep social distancing. On top of that make sure you get good sanitizers. You must make sure they are more than 70% alcohol, not less. We are at high risk for even coming around to your house. In fact, I won’t be coming around; I have to protect myself. My son Jeff and his boys will deliver everything you need. Please, please Ondela, make sure you have good supplies of disposable masks and sanitizers.”

She was speaking so fast I don’t think she was breathing in between sentences. There was fear in her voice; I could feel her panic as I stood there listening to her barking orders; orders that made it seem as if my mother had been a leper.

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Tell us: What do you think about what Mrs Mbalula is saying? Is she right, or is she over-reacting?