“Yes. I am her brother.” My voice quivered, sounding strange even to myself. I lifted my eyes and saw Mpumezo looking at me as if he could tell that something was wrong. I am certain he wanted to come closer but he had to maintain social distance.

“Ondela, you are shaking, boy. What’s up?” he whispered, coming nearer.

The heavy but clear, deep voice in my ear continued. “Your sister Ayola Dabula is very critical now. The only way to possibly save her is to urgently put her on a ventilator, to help with her breathing,” said Dr Mazizi.

For a moment I didn’t even know what he was talking about, my mind was just reeling. “What do you mean?” I asked with a quivering voice.

“We need permission to do this from an older family member, because it is risky. Even if it works, there might complications. So before we put a patient on a ventilator – especially one so young – we need the family representative’s permission,” he explained.

I remained silent, tears trickling down my face. Mpumezo grabbed his phone from me and continued streaming the funeral procedures to our family and friends.

“A ventilator is a machine that helps oxygen to get into the lungs of a patient. It increases the chance of survival when all other measures fail. So do you agree to us putting her on it?” asked Dr Mazizi.

I nodded, forgetting that I was talking on the phone, in my state of shock.

“Mr Dabula are you there? Do you give us permission?”

“Yes! Yes Dr Mazizi. Go ahead. Save my sister, please!”

I was now crying profusely; I didn’t even know when the doctor had dropped the call. My sight was blurred with tears as I walked towards Mpumezo. I started to feel sick, my legs wobbly.

“Ondela! Ondela, are you good boy? Are you okay? You are staggering! No man, I think I need take you to a doctor.”

“My head! My head feels like it’s about to crack,” I said, sitting down. I felt so weak; as if all energy had left my body. I had never had such a painful headache in my life!

“I am taking you to the local doctor,” said Mpumezo, helping me to get up, and we walked to the car slowly. Mpumezo pleaded with some of our neighbours to watch out for everything until the funeral procedure was done.

Two hours later Mpumezo dropped me at home. There I found my grandmother sitting forlornly on the mattress behind the door, as per the custom. At least she was not alone; there were two women from our neighbourhood in the room with her. One was sitting in one corner while the other was sitting in the other, both with masks on, and the door and windows were wide open.

“Oh my boy! My child! Are you alright? Come here?” Tears streamed down Khulu’s face when she saw me walk in. I bet she had forgotten about covid-19 and just wanted to hug me, but before she could, one of the women yelled at her.

“No Sis Dora! He must sanitize first! Do not hug him please. What if he has got this ‘thing’ as well?” Then the other woman jumped up and grabbed a one litre bottle of sanitizer and sprayed it all over me. I had to close my eyes tight, fearing that the spray would reach them.

“These are hard times bethunana. We cannot risk our lives,” she said as she sprayed more on my hands. I started sneezing as the fumes engulfed my whole body. My grandmother’s eyes were red and swollen. I could tell she had been crying a lot. She took a deep breath of despondency and leaned back on the wall.

“I have no words. I am dumb, Ondela. Why is this happening to us? What have we done? Have you heard anything about Ayola?”

“Ayola is strong and healthy, apart from her asthma, Khulu. But the doctors have put her on something they call a ventilator, to help her breathe. We must continue to hope and believe she will make it.”

“Ngxesi Mama! Be comforted. The Lord will be with you, even in these trying times,” said the one woman.

“Bring her sugar water!” yelled the other to the younger ladies in the kitchen.

“Oh Lord, my God, save my grandchild,” Khulu said, covering her face with both hands and sobbing.

“We can’t even come closer and embrace you, Sis Dora. Thula sisi. Please, be strong,” said her friend.

One of the women in the kitchen brought her a glass of water. I kneeled next to her. I watched her drying her tears with her checked black shawl. I looked at her dry, wrinkled face, the sagging skin under her chin, and wondered for how long I would have her.

I beg you Father, I am pleading with you, Father in heaven, do not let this pandemic sweep away all of my close family members. That was my silent prayer.

As we were still sitting there, engulfed by grief, we were brought to our senses by the hooting of cars passing by.

We had totally forgotten about the drive-by in honour of my mom that had been planned by the nurses! It had vanished from our minds because grief had taken over.

“The drive-by Khulu!” I exclaimed and rushed outside. Khulu struggled up and she and the few women that were at our house stepped outside and we all stood at the garden wall.

As we watched, the cars drove slowly by, people waving to us. All the nurses were in their work uniforms; it was such a beautiful spectacle to behold. Some would get out briefly and drop a bouquet of flowers and a card. Some dropped envelopes of money on the prepared table.

I smiled, though my eyes were glassy. Even my grandmother smiled, acknowledging the nurses as they passed by, and she waved to them as a gesture of gratitude. We stood there until the last car had done its by-pass. The table was piled with gifts.

Everyone was in a mask, but as they waved I know they smiled, even though I could not see their faces. I was deeply grateful. I felt comforted, and I could see how Khulu’s spirits had been lifted by this honouring of her daughter, my mother.

***

Tell us: What is your opinion of a ‘drive-by’ as a way to honour someone, when you cannot attend a funeral? Will live-streaming funerals continue even after covid?