Chapter 1
It has already been two years since Letsomo has been going in and out of Maphane hospital. Eventually, the health officials declared him a home-based patient. Mma Sereto, his wife, now called Masalu (old woman) by everyone because of her advanced age, had become weary of the mammoth caretaking responsibility that was hers each day. It often felt as though she was slowly dying with him.
Masalu’s firstborn was named Sereto at birth, as it is common Setswana practice to this day for parents to be called by their firstborns’ names; Masalu was therefore also known as Mma Sereto (mother of Sereto), while Letsomo was called Rra Sereto (father of Sereto). Sereto herself had already crossed the middle-age mark and was known as Mma Lesego, after her firstborn son, but everyone fondly called her Mmama, a title used by grandchildren to show respect.
Masalu woke up on a warm night of December 1989 to ensure the mosquitoes were not sucking her husband’s blood — Letsomo did not care for blankets, despite his medical condition, and Masalu was struggling to keep him safe from their bites.
“Ntate,” she called out. In deference to her husband, who was only five years her senior, Masalu was fond of addressing him with the noun that was proper for their children as it meant father.
No answer.
“Ntate — at least pull the sheet over your body,” she begged.
Still, there was no answer. She crawled to his mattress. His body was cold. There was no pulse.
“Ntate — can you hear me?” she asked, her voice rising in fear of the obvious.
There was no response. Masalu placed her hand next to Letsomo’s chest and thought she felt his heartbeat. She removed it and pressed it against the chest once more, but this time felt nothing. She knelt over and placed her ear against his nose, but did not hear anything. Masalu then placed her middle and index fingers on the nostrils. There was no breath.
“Are you dead, Letsomo? Have you left me to suffer alone?”
How could he answer? Masalu wondered to herself in confusion. She knelt down and covered him from head to toe and began talking and pleading, tears and mucus dripping to meet on her chin.
Dear God, my Lord! Sometimes I wonder if you are up there. It’s been tormenting to care for Letsomo these last two years. I’ve cried tears with no one to wipe them, and drenched my pillow more times than I can count. I toss in my bed each night, cursing the gloom to turn into daylight. Haunting thoughts hurt my head and break my spirit. I unintentionally wake up and upset Manchoro, my youngest daughter, as my cane hits the cement floor with monotonous frequency. Then, when she is awake, I demand cold water and pester her to rub my wrinkled body with Vaseline. From my toes up to my neck there is pain and stiffness. How can human muscles get so stiff and sore? I sometimes hear them break, tearing apart like a ripped piece of wood.
This is the life that I’ve led over these years. Every night has been the same, and now, at this very hour, my husband’s body is lying here next to me, lifeless.
How much longer are you going to keep me suffering, Lord? Why are you not hearing my cry? Oh Lord of compassion, take me home with him. Remove me from this stinking world–it has no stored treasures for me, except shame. Take me into your bosom and let me rest forever, Amen!
