It was just after five in the morning and I heard my grandmother’s shaky, sleepy voice trying to sing out her favourite morning hymn. It was time to pray. Since we were children, even when visiting Khulu in her homestead, we knew that five o’clock was prayer time.

“Law’la,Law’la Nkosi Yesu (Govern Lord Jesus)
Koza ngawe ukonwaba (Happiness can only come through You)
Ngeziphithi-phithi zethu, (Because of our struggles)
Yonakele imihlaba. (The world is damaged)
Bona izwe lakowethu (Look at our world)
Uxolel’izono zalo. (and forgive its sins)
Ungayithob’ingqumbo yakho, (Do not send thy wrath now)
Luze luf’usapho lwakho. (and kill thy children.) …

The words seemed especially true today. I joined her in the bedroom, but knelt down a few meters away from her.

I don’t even know why I did that … I suppose it was safer for her … because all I really wanted was for her to hug me, and tell me this was a big lie! That everything was just a nightmare. That I would wake up soon.

Khulu was also in pain. I know the way she loved my mother, and Ayola. She began a long and touching prayer.

“Almighty God, be with that little girl in that hospital ward! Be with Ayola, Nkosi yezulu!”

When she had done praying, both our eyes were wet.

“Thank you, Khulu. I needed that, for strength,” I said softly, fixing my pants and tucking in my T-shirt. Khulu walked out with me to the kitchen for her morning cup of hot lemon water.

“Mzukulwana, be strong my boy. It’s no time for crying now. Remember, I am behind you all the way. God is going to give us strength to do your mother’s ‘work’ up till the end, even if no people are coming by.”

I just stood there, watching her pour the water in the kettle, plugging it in and then taking two cups from the cupboard.

“I will make one for you as well,” she said rinsing the cups.

“No, thanks Khulu–”

“No! No! Lemon water is good for your system. I will add a pinch of cayenne pepper as well. It is very good for your body, seriously.”

I had no power to argue with her. Disgusted as I was, I just nodded. I don’t even like drinking tea or coffee, let alone lemon water. I pulled a chair from the small kitchen table and plonked my tired body down on it. My mother’s mug, adorned with her smiling face, hung on the dish rail near the sink.

“So, have you heard from the hospital? How is our little girl?” Khulu asked, leaning on the cupboard, waiting for the kettle to boil.

I was six years older than Ayola. She was my only sibling, my baby sister. I remembered the chat I had with Mrs Mbalula. I knew that it could be true that my sister was in ICU, because her daughter worked at the hospital. So I had followed up until I got an update. It was hard, as the hospital staff were under such pressure – no time for phone calls!

The water boiled and Khulu poured it in the two cups she had prepared. Then she cut two slices of lemon and threw one in her cup and one in mine. She followed by adding half a teaspoon of honey to each and a pinch of cayenne pepper.

“There you go. The cayenne pepper will revive you a bit. Drink it, it is very good for you. Come on, take a sip.”

“Thank you, Khulu,” I said. It smelled nice, I must say, so and I took the first sip and then looked at her. To think that she came here sickly, to be cared for, now she was here preparing a funeral for the very same person she was hoping would take care of her in her last days.

Life is awful. The corona is a demon. Those were my thoughts as we sipped on our water silently. Even in our silence it was clear that our minds were in deep thoughts. Khulu sighed, and put down her cup, fixed her night gown slightly and then sat up straight to look at me, and ask the dreadful questions again.

“Did you hear anything about Ayola? How is she doing? Have you heard anything?”

“Khulu, it’s not looking good. I heard she has been transferred to the ICU and yesterday the doctors told me that her treatment included that she be put on high-flow nasal oxygen. They don’t want to put her on a, what’s it called … uhm … ventilator yet,” I said, not even understanding what I was talking about.

“Oh God! Oh Somandla!” She looked down, covering her eyes with her hands, as if she was praying. She was as scared as I was.

“I am going to be very busy today Khulu. There is a lot of stuff I need to sort out. I wish one of my uncles were here – at least one – but they are scared for their lives. I cannot blame them.” I said that, even though deep down I still believed they should have come. My mother is – was – their only sister after all.

“That is true my child. They should be here, but what can we say? The corona has changed everything. It has turned people against each other. It has demolished the spirit of ubuntu in our families, in our communities! In all my years, and I am turning 70 this year, I have never seen something like this. Ever!”

She clapped her hands for emphasis, fixing her sad eyes straight on me. I could see the greyish rings surrounding her pupils, which might be the cause of her weak eye-sight. She struggles to see without her thick glasses.

“Yhoo! Khulu, even here in our community, people are scared to come close to me. They look at me as if I have a dreaded disease or something,” I added. Then I had to admit: “I guess corona is a dreaded disease. And they don’t know we have tested negative.”

“Do you think the people will come tomorrow to the funeral?”

“I am not sure, Khulu, but it is okay. We will do what we have to do to honour her. My mother got this virus while in the line of duty; there was no way she could have avoided it. Unfortunately, she had to be one of the unlucky ones.”

Khulu smiled. A wry, sad smile.

“Oh my daughter! She was very proud of her work. It was more of a calling than a job to her. I can see the smile on her face whenever she had assisted delivering a healthy baby. She loved children so much,” said Khulu, her voice shaking with tears.

“Yeah, that is true. So Khulu, today what are we doing?” I said darting out to my bedroom to get my note book and my pen. I looked at my messed up, untidy room, with my unmade bed. I pulled the duvet over it. Then I took all the things I was going to need and walked out, closing the door behind me.

***

Tell us: Can you relate to what Ondela and his grandmother are going through? Have you or someone you know suffered badly due to covid-19?