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July 30, 2008, Zanele, by Chris Newton
Yesterday Carol Webb and Marilyn Aitken came to visit us at Douglas Drift. Carol was Zanele’s mentor when she was down in Cape Town in 2004 for Training for Transformation. It was a warm brilliantly clear day – a typical winter day that can only be typical for the southern Drakensburg – where the days can be almost summer like, but by four in the afternoon the fire must be lit as the temperature plummets to less than zero.
We spent the afternoon reminiscing about Zanele. How her best friend at T for T was a Masaii woman from Kenya as tall and thin as every Masaii depicted in coffee table books about Kenya. How Anna taught Zanele to swim and Zanele taught Anna to ride a bike. We talked of the good times and of the times that Zanele struggled with stigma and depression. We talked of the real Zanele, of the craziness of her funeral, of the preacher who was angry that there wasn’t more religion, of the men who danced on her grave as they packed the red earth over her casket. Of the woman who wrote the letter, but who was not able to move beyond the letter as other moved around her.
Tonight I sit in the cold evening breeze with my window open, listening to nine voices united in music in the next room. The voices of Memeza Africa singing what I believe must be their own Sunday evening service of worship. I think of the last time I heard Zanele’s voice raised wearily but still with power, in the early morning around the fire at the clinic. Singing with these same people a week before she passed away. Her voice was clear and strong that day. The voice we all knew to be Zanele. Her body was so obviously failing. Her head against her chest. She was small that day only her voice was still big. Life and death here is so different than in Canada – so many people die. So many people that we know and love die. We have learned to be African. If you are to live here and not become broken hearted you learn to love and you learn to say good-bye. It has taken a month for me to say good-bye. Tonight is the time. With the music coming through the evening it is time to say good-bye to you – the woman who brought us here. In the words of Matukiso you have done your job. Go well. Hambe khale.
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