For a moment a happy picture of my vibrant, beautiful mother flashed into my mind. I saw her gorgeous smile as she dashed around from one hospital ward to another. She offered congratulations and advice to the new young, and older, mothers, as they received their bundles of joy from her hands.

My mother had been a senior midwife in our local hospital. She had been a dedicated nurse for the last 20 years. In her lifetime she had delivered hundreds of bouncing babies. I pictured her in her snow-white nursing uniform, maroon lapels on her shoulders. I then pictured her in her navy and white suit. Oh, such beauty and elegance! My mother had a young heart, was so full of life, so loving. I am really going to miss her.

I have taken numerous photos and selfies with my mother in that uniform. But my last photo of her, the one that I cherish the most, is the one I took when separated from her by a glass door.

The rules were very strict and visitors were not allowed into the hospital ward, but I managed to sneak a selfie with her as she came up to the door to get her lunch. The security guard took the lunch box from me as I was not allowed in, but Mama asked me to take a photo of us. So I took that selfie with her behind the glass door. She looked strange, but I could tell she was smiling behind the mask. She was covered from head to toe in a plastic suit. I was told it was the PPE – Personal Protective Equipment. What an awful picture to be etched in my mind!

I shook my head as if to clear the image, and could hear Mrs Mbalula still shouting at the top of her shrill and coarse voice, from my cellphone.

“Do you hear me, Ondela? Do you hear me?!”

“Oh yes, yes Mama.” I did not hear more, because for a moment I was lost again in my own thoughts. How I wished she would just stop, but she continued and I tuned in again. “How is your sister doing at the hospital? Poor child to contract this deadly disease! Shame torho!”

That question brought me back to my senses. I started to shiver in anxiety, so I leaned against the wall next to my bed, and took deep, calming breaths. I didn’t know how Ayola was doing. She had taken ill just after my mother had passed away; soon had to be taken to hospital as she was struggling to breathe.

“I don’t know Mama; I have not heard anything. In fact, according to the rules we are not allowed to go there. How did you find out she was in hospital?”

“Oh me? I have ears and eyes everywhere. A green fly told me that she is in ICU now,” she said that with a chuckle, using an old Xhosa adage when she mentioned a ‘green fly.’ “Yes, she is in ICU, Ondela, which means it is not looking good. Oh Lord! I-C-U!” she emphasized.

A bolt of cold lightning flashed through my veins; I suddenly felt literally sick, as if I was about to throw up.

“Mama, I have to go. Please bring us everything you think we will need. I don’t know what some of the things are that I should collect. I will pay you, Mama, for everything Jeff brings.” I pleaded with her, and then dropped the call.

I was not even aware of the tears that were streaming down my face. My eyes were burning hot and red as coals. Since that Friday, I had not stopped crying. People, even my friends, had shunned me. They were too scared to come close to me.

How could I blame them though? Two people in my family had contracted the corona virus. One succumbed to it while the other was busy fighting for her life in hospital.

I showered quickly. In the next bedroom lay my grandmother, alone. She had come to visit before the lockdown. I thank God that she had to be quarantined with us. If she had not come, I would have been alone in this house.

According to our custom, a bereaved person is not allowed to be left alone, even during the day, let alone at night. People from the neighbouring houses, relatives, and just anyone who knows your family, should come to visit you. They should come and help you out with everything, some not even charging you a cent.

Now, because of the pandemic and the strict orders from the authorities, people shun funerals – because it’s where most people are infected. The virus is easily spread at such gatherings, where people are close and there is lots of singing and loud prayer. It sprays the covid into the air. I fully agree with that. People should try by all means to protect themselves.

But wait until this happens to your family! The pain seems to be doubled by the absence of mourners. The absence of people who come by and say, ‘Ondela, we are with you in this. We have come to share your pain.’ Instead, the pandemic has made us like aliens to each other.

Even my uncles refused to come and help me with the arrangements. One of them, Uncle George, just called and told me to be sure that we don’t bury the wrong ‘body’ as the wrath of the ancestors would be upon us all. The nerve!

“Malume, of all people, you should be here. You should be the one who is helping me do these things. This is too much for me. I was hoping you or Uncle Mandla would come,” I responded desperately.

“No! We cannot come mtshana. I am sorry. You heard what the President has said. And besides, my wife would not have allowed me to come, even if I was not this far away, because everyone knows Mariza died of covid-19.”

“But Uncle George, at least you, not Aunt Sophia, should come and help me out. I am struggling. I don’t sleep at night. Khulu is too old to help in anything major. She just welcomes the few people who come around to offer condolences,” I wept over the phone. My tears did not mean much to uncle, I guess.

“Be a man mtshana, and stop crying! Wipe those tears and be the man you should be. There is nothing we can do. In times like these one has to forget about old customs and rituals that we do during funerals. It’s not a good time,” he said.

I wiped my tears and cleared my throat.

“Malume, I am begging you, please come over so that I am not alone, with just a few neighbours. I need you. You are my blood. At least you will be allowed to come!” I yelled at him, because a friend of mine had just come from the Northern Cape to bury his father.

“Hey! Hey kwedini! Do not raise your voice to me. Don’t you ever! I am warning you. Stop being a cry baby and just make sure my sister’s body is the one you bury. Do you hear me Ondela? You make one mistake, and the wrath of the ancestors will be upon you, I am telling you, boy.”

I cut him off and dropped the phone. There was no point listening to him.

***

Tell us: Would you take the usual precautions (mask, sanitizer, social distancing, ventilation) and go to help with a funeral, like Mpumezo? Why or why not?