Grade 8, Thlokomelo Drop in Centre
Thato, sheshisa,’ my mother said. We were supposed to haven fun as a family but we had the total opposite on the day. My sister suffers from asthma and we forgot her asthma spray. We arrived at the venue, set up the braai and went to change our clothes. But then she was just sitting there. ‘ Tumi, are you okay?’ I asked with a concerned face as she looked pale. Gasping for breath, she opened her mouth and said, ’spray.’
Without even thinking twice, I searched all of the bags but I could not reach or see the spray. ‘Mama spray sa Tumi ha seo.’ She also did the same thing I did and she looked for the spray. We couldn’t bear to see Tumi lying on the grass, gasping for breath and looking pale. My mother took her and they headed to the clinic which referred them to the hospital.
My aunt and I packed all of our stuff and followed them to the hospital. My mother’s hair was a mess, frustration playing with her emotions as she was eager to see Tumi. My aunt and I looked at each other and dared not to say a word. We still waited for her and none of us thought of bringing her clothes and toiletries to refresh. We spent the whole day in the corridor of the hospital waiting for a nurse or doctor to tell us if Tumi was coping. Unfortunately, we had to leave and head home.
I don’t know what was happening in my mother’s head when she turned on the TV and tuned into the news channel. The president was addressing the country about Lockdown Level 5. In the morning, when I woke up, she had left. I searched for her and looked in the wardrobe, but nothing was missing except Tumi’s clothes and toiletries. That meant only one thing: she had gone to the hospital and tagged our aunt along with her.
On 27 th March, the loneliness, grumpiness and all other emotions including sadness were drawn on our faces. We all thought of only one person, Tumi. Day in and day out we called the hospital to check up on how she was coping but they did not answer. All they said was that they were busy. It was two months later when we finally saw her.
There she was, still pale, lying on the bed. I so wished to go and comfort her but I could not even put myself in her shoes. But we saw her face: she was tired and she looked like she was ready to give up on life until she saw us. She came close to the glass and had her phone on her side.
‘Mama, please go because it really breaks my heart seeing you looking at me like this. I feel I have failed you guys,’ she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked thin and pale but we saw in her face that she was actually starving.
‘Nana, are you eating?’
‘No, ma, I don’t eat. Instead it feels like they have forgotten about me and instead they give me food that contains tartrazine,’ she said, clicking her tongue.
I looked at them speak but all I could imagine was how she was because I would not wish this for my worst enemy. The visiting time was up and we had to go.
‘No, no, no, Thato, please don’t go! Please don’t go Mama,’ she screamed so painfully, and I felt my heart ache. I stopped and went back.
‘Hey you come back!,’ the doctor said, but he did not matter at all. All that mattered was Tumi. I banged on the glass and she looked at me and she came to the glass and we had a socially distanced hug. But then I thought, ‘Damn this virus!’ I opened the door and took all her clothes and put them in a bag and ordered her to change.
‘Call the guards and throw her out,’ said the doctor.
‘I dare you to do that, ‘ I said. We looked directly in his face and then we headed home. I broke the law but who cared because that law did not care about Tumi’s health. We bought her all her medication and cared for her at home. She got back her health. She was much better here with us than separated by a glass I thought.