Ashes to Ashes
Photo: Edward Kucherenko
No one will tell you, but this is how it happened. When we entered the quarantine zone, everyone was promised adequate care and attention. But do not be deceived, dear friend, people lie.
The first thing we saw was a big chimney that expelled the soot of lost brothers and sisters that couldn’t breathe anymore. We asked why there was an incinerator at a place of hope and good health, but the crackling noise of the wheels of stretchers was the only thing that answered back. Lloyd, Millicent, Lewis, Marlene, Tabitha, Craig, Jimmy, fat Albert, tiny Carrie, Morris Junior, and Zahra. These were my friends. One by one, they gave up the ghost, and l gathered their ashes in a bread plastic bag like a trophy that no one aspires to. Black or white, it didn’t matter, or at least, l thought it didn’t.
Black lives matter. We were happy when we watched the demonstrations on the old TV that had one channel. But when we learnt that the whites in the single wards were given meat while we ate lentils and castor beans daily, I knew that the demonstrations would not achieve very much. Even in a place like this, the colour of one’s skin mattered! You see, the greatest disease in this life isn’t favouritism, greed, or power. It’s simple racism, and maybe, for this, there is no cure, yet—not even impending death.
“The first thing we saw was a big chimney that expelled the soot of lost brothers and sisters that couldn’t breathe anymore.”
When the donated ventilators arrived after days of pain and death, fangs suddenly appeared and the most important questions were about money. Who could afford a ventilator? For how long? For those, like me, who couldn’t afford ventilators, they made sure to bring pastors that prayed for our last days. They prayed through a large glass window and looked at us as though we were wounded animals. Pity: the only medicine we could all share, equally, as we gasped for air and forced ourselves to eat the food they prepared for us while complaining about us not dying fast enough.
I prayed tirelessly in silence, dear friend, even kept the Holy Bible under my pillow before l fell asleep every day, but nothing changed. The only thing l heard daily was the mocking birds as they derided my weary lifestyle and morning struggles to get to the bathroom. To say I had given up hope was an understatement, but in the midst of all this pain, I found my calling. I understood my purpose: why l had survived so far even though all of my friends were gone. It was simple really. My calling was to leave you this message so that when your time here is up, you can also properly show the new outcast that will take your place the real nature of this world. Lab rats, test subjects, or martyrs, no matter what term is used to talk about us, at the end of the day, we are humans. My newfound purpose made me love my God even more; after all, belief is a covenant, in sickness, good, or bad.
Culture, my friend, this you must know! Indeed l am African, and where l come from we eat together and share the most exciting and horrid moments of life. My people understand the basic laws of humanity, and indeed knowledge is power, but power is policed by those with the most influence. In their shallow minds, quarantined people like us were not only as good as dead but also weak and evil—evildoers punished for their bad acts in this world. So no one came to see me, us, on my death bed, dear friend, no one, not even family or an intruder that barged in by mistake. We were all alone, and what made it worse was how they sanitized their hands every time they touched us with latex gloves. It was bad my friend, bad.
How about love, you wonder, l guess? Well, unfortunately, l would never know how that feels buddy. You see, I had a plan that I would work hard and be independent and marry the girl of my dreams when l reached 29, but here we are. If horses were wishes, hey! I used to see myself as a writer and a people’s champion in advocacy, generally a cool chap. Maybe l still have an opportunity to be all of that with you. This place will absorb you, infuse its dirt infested walls inside the very core of your soul, but remember, we serve a living God and I will be waiting to greet you on the other side, if you make it.
I can sense that you are a bit edgy about this; let me move onto other things whilst you digest this reality. The day you come in and they put a clock facing you, ask them politely to leave with it. You see, they won’t tell you that every minute tick and every alarm sound is a countdown to your grave. The clock is a reminder that you are a statistic waiting to be ticked off a register so that someone else can take your bed. Do not cry, my friend; a wise man once told me to never cling to this life, for all things are vanity, and trust me, you will understand this soon.
Well enough about me, at least for now. I like to know people and what drives them, so tell me, what’s your dream car or favourite sport? Nah l do not think you are a sporty type of person. Modelling? Hiking? Nah, you strike me as an introvert. Reading novels, maybe? Read “Born on a Tuesday” by Elnathan John. That one is a classic, my friend. This place is hell but that book is one of the few good things they have in abundance. I am a radical soccer fan and basketball fanatic when it comes to sports, and my favourite movie is Tarzan. You don’t believe it? Ha-ha, well I am not mesmerized by the whole swinging from tree to tree either, but the way he relates with his animal family and treats them with respect. Now that right there, dear friend, is rare especially in this life where the motto is “kill what you eat”.
Education. Well, l studied at a boarding school where teachers left the same day they arrived. At times, it would get so bad that the janitor would pitch to teach what they assumed to be “life skills”. In short, the groundsmen could be both marking the grounds and math, and no one would query it because it was in a remote rural area where the sound and sight of a car was like gold itself. Okay, l am lying, ha-ha. I studied at a rural school as a day scholar and miraculously made it to varsity despite the hardships l faced. You see, I am from a polygamous family. My father has four wives, and none of them likes me or my mother. My mother is the youngest, not young like young but young in the sense that she’s the fourth wife. I am her only child and the oldest boy in the family.
Zimbabwe. Photo by Christine Donaldson
Long story short, my other mothers wanted my father’s blessing for their male children—my siblings, my young brothers, and my blood—boys that see me as a hero and love me regardless of who our mothers are. Finally, my other mothers will have what they have longed for, but if l had a way to talk to them or at least ask them one last question, l would ask them if it was all worth it. Don’t feel sorry for me; this was exactly what drove me to be where l am in life today. Not on this bed, of course, but in life. I never raised my voice at them even when l was mad at them because that is what Tarzan does, respect! They will be alright. And my mother will heal and find happiness again. l pray for that every day.
Before I forget, let's discuss this COVID-19 that we are positive with. It doesn’t matter that they said it came from China or that it is a communicable respiratory disease caused by a new strain of coronavirus that causes illness in humans. What matters my friend is that you and l shared the same bed because of it, and this genealogy will be a swift and regular one until we try our best to save the next outcast to grace this bed. You never know, you might make it or they may. What is killing me is that my lungs are collapsing, and I have holes in my lungs, due to the virus, that can’t be patched up. I have embraced my fate, however. It is a miracle that l even survived this long already. In the private wards, they steam the patients daily with lemon and onion water amongst other curative measures, and you know what? Those guys survive! I do not know how you will do it or when you will do it but try, my friend, just try!
Did you know that a snail can sleep for three years, elephants can’t jump, and polar bears are left-handed? I mean who cares, right? There are more important things in society like the yawning gap between the haves and haves not. Well, maybe, this place might also create a philosopher out of you, my friend, but in any case, what would you do if you were given a second chance at life? I thought about this for countless minutes and hours, and l always arrived at the same answer: teach the kids that the world is colourless and privileges are for those that make it to heaven. This way, maybe, black and white won’t be a thing, and race would finally be a word used to indicate track events only.
Hi, my friend. l am sorry that l didn’t greet you properly when l began to write. I wrote this in haste and with my last energy reserve. It’s about time that l told you my name, right? Well, my name doesn’t matter; just know me the guy who tagged you. However, if you make it, tell the world that l was a cheerful young black man who wanted nothing more than for everybody to be happy. People love those kinds of stories nowadays anyway; they want to know the man behind the story but not what he is.
This is not a suicide or goodbye note, my friend; this is a leap of faith. Broadening new horizons, inner peace if you may, and l am overjoyed about it. I will hide this letter in between the springs at the edge of this bed that is currently mine, in the hope that you find it. If you do, thank you, it means that I have fulfilled my purpose. The mantle is in your court now; may you pass it to the world unapologetically, hard and unbroken. All this l have told you because l believe in you, and l know you will make it!
I asked that when they cremate my remains that they pour my ash into the bread plastic bag full of ash in your compartment. No one listened to me while I was alive, I doubt they will listen when I am dead. But you never know. In that plastic bag, if they listened, are the ashes of me and your brothers. You are not alone.
With love,
The guy who tagged you.
About the author
Thabo Clive Mathonsi is a Zimbabwean writer. He has written three books and was one of the authors featured in the Journal of African Youth Literature 2020. He is also an aspiring scriptwriter and film director. He just loves writing and creating stories that not only entertain and educate people but also let them know that they are not alone in this world!
