Making our to-do list gave some order to this difficult day for Khulu and me.

“Oh, okay, that is great. I will go to the funeral parlour to check if everything is in order, but first I need to go to the bank. Also, Khulu, when the guys finish erecting the tent and have brought the chairs and the sound system, please give them their money. I will leave some money with you,” I said, taking a stash of money from my wallet and handing it to her.

“So the coffin will not come via home tomorrow before going to the graveyard?” she asked, folding the cash in her hand.

“No, Khulu, that is too risky. The coffin will go straight to the graveyard. The Pastor will conduct a short service and then we will come here and finish up with another short service, outside, in the open-sided tent. The whole service should be less than two hours, as per the covid-19 rules.” I reminded her.

She nodded in despair. “This is wrong. So very wrong. So we can’t be sure whether the body we are burying is your mother’s?”

“We will have to trust the undertakers. She has to be wrapped in plastic to prevent the spread of the virus, even for the workers. They say it spreads easily in cold places.”

“I am feeling numb. I am just overwhelmed by all of this. I struggle to eat. I am worried about Ayola.”

“Let’s hope she will defeat this, Khulu. Keep praying for her, Khulu,” I said softly. Ayola was struggling to breathe and had other covid symptoms, but at least she was in good care.

It was still early morning but people were already up and about, some going to work while others were sweeping their yards and doing chores.

I remembered that I needed to get airtime to call Mpumezo, who was to drive me to the gravesite in his car. As I set off I saw a boy coming down the street: Phila, one of the kids who used to come and read with me in our small Reading Club.

“Hey Phila, come here. Can you get me airtime from the Somali’s shop, please? I will give you two rand to buy chips,” I said, taking out my wallet from my back pocket.

But instead of coming happily to me as he used to, he froze, and looked at me as if I was a ghost.

“Here! Come,” I said again, but the boy moved backwards, his eyes bulging. It was as if I had said I was going to beat him up.

Instead his mother appeared at a window and yelled at him to come home quickly. Without another word the boy turned and ran back to his house.

Then it hit me. The stigma. People were scared of me! They were scared of us as a family because my mother had died of Covid-19. So parents were now even warning their children not to come close to us.

I think the stigma is worse than the sword caused by the virus, I thought, as I stood there, looking like a fool. No-one was in sight but I just knew some people might be looking at me behind their lace curtains.

Beep! Beep!

I turned and saw Mpumezo waving in his car. I ran over, jumped in, and we drove off together, masks on, windows open. How I appreciated my friend at that moment.

***

Tell us: Do you think Phila’s mother is over-reacting? How could Phila safely interact with Ondela?