The Birthday Girl

I have a confession to make.

I was not born in the USA. But I am a son of the soil.

And no, I was not conceived immaculately. Nevertheless, I suspect I may have been conceived in a low to middle class cabin on an ocean liner traveling along the South-east African coastline. It would go no further than the Durban port. I cannot truly be a water baby because, boyo, this baby cannot swim to save his life. 

Later;

Brother One was born.

I was over the moon. Because a year later, Armstrong landed on the moon too.

And you Loved me to the moon and back.

But it was during that year that the world lost three great men, all three citizens and servants of the United States of America. Senator Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jnr. And Malcolm X. They removed these men.

By any means necessary.

And Armstrong crooned that it was a wonderful world indeed. Marcos and Imelda certainly thought so.

Much later;

Brother Two was born.

In number order.

The one is no less important than the other. But what might they make of Brother Zero? No matter, but sometimes it does feel like that. Like you’re still at the ground zero of your life. Or what do you think? Brothers? Sisters? Nanays, tatays, uncles and aunts. Women and children first.

It did not happen in Vietnam. Before that horrendous war ended, women and children were killed.

Still in that same year.

The Birthday girl. She was born, just a little earlier than Brother One, is all.

But like B1, she never forgets a birthday. Which is why I refer to her still as the birthday girl. I forget birthdays sometimes but not this kid’s. Good reason why. 

And the year you were born?

And do you remember how it all started out for us?

And now there are these days. Things have changed. But it is not water under the bridge, my Love.

To this day, I still have many pet names for you; I wonder if any one or two of them could be patented? Because seriously folks, things are tough out there.  

And we could all do with a little extra cash as of now.

It’s tough in Batingan. The streets are empty and quiet. It is like a ghost town. There is no work to be done. Not even good old housekeeping chores, washing and ironing too. Because there’s just no money around to pay the hired help.

Now, seeing as you love your green gardens so much, how different things could have been had you started up your own veggie patch. Instead of leaning on the wet markets which are, nowadays, out of bounds anyways.

But it is not water under the bridge as well you should know.

Well, since ouma and oupa were first carted off from District Six, otherwise known as Kannalaland, it’s always been tough in Manenberg. And today still, it remains a gangster’s paradise. I remember how it was when I first visited the ‘township’. 

Unless you were really desperate for another quart of warm beer, you would go no further than the steps just outside of your front door. The endless steps.

Today still, it remains a middle-class suburb. Mowbray is a haven for all students who must get to their lectures on time. But today, it is a ghost town as well. Years back though, B1 and B2 were born in the town hospital’s maternity ward.

And while B2 was being babysat by gran and Joe, well, gran most of the time I would imagine, B1 and BZ were munching on popcorn as quietly as humanly possible, trying very hard not to catch flies while gawping at their first introduction to the star wars.

Years later it was so pleasing to learn how much the generation gap has closed. Because I soon learned with certain marvel in my breast how B2 and his Princes were analyzing, reviewing, dissecting, applauding, reviling and pretty much doing cartwheels together while the recognizable soundtrack continued to hum overhead.

But as all solid to good dads would do, I gather, came the terse reminder.

I am still your father.

I lived briefly with B1 in this quiet town. Or was it because I was practically deaf? Anyways, so as I was saying.

Although I never actually felt it, it could have been ground zero for all we knew. The earth shook, you see. But I never got to see my young pop scampering about in his birthday suit to make sure that mom, ‘cat’ and I were A-Okay. Oh, and B1 too. It was an earthquake. But – phew! – no volcanic eruptions.

And so it goes in this country of ours that we have a creaking old nuclear power station literally stationed on fault lines with the Atlantic ocean’s waves lapping its ageing cement walls. 

The birthday girl and I spent many a year traipsing up and down this famous long street bordering a quaint set of homesteads and shops and tinkering and tailoring sheds. It was known to its residents and all others as Bo Kaap. It was originally an enclave for slaves from the Islands of Malaya. Today these are known as Malaysia.

Traveling northwards by boat, you will have reached Indochina. Today it is broken up into free and independent states of which the following.

Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand. Singapore too for that matter but you do know that it is quite expensive over there. And if you thought PDA (public displays of affection) were bad in Binangonan or Manila, go to Singapore.

But we could go to Thailand. I have it on good authority that it is very nice over there. You see, B1 once took an extended vacation over there.

And so we go on to the islands.

The birthday girl and I used to talk philosophically and yet so spiritually at times on the tetchy matter of racism in this our tale of two cities. In those days, we did not talk too much of gender prejudice. It would not have entered my mind. She brushed racism to one side and believed that the white man’s sentiments were perfectly understandable.

Until it happened. It remains an unpleasant and humiliating experience being on the receiving end of racism.

And gender prejudice.

I remember the birthday girl’s birth date because it is on Human Right’s Day. Some South Africans commemorate the day when white policemen cowardly gunned down 69 human beings. Not 67. 69. In the back. There were women and children. And they were black.

You know the story well by now. I eke out a living as a copywriter. I ghost-write for others too. And I am still working on my short stories and novel drafts. But you inspired me, indeed you gave me courage, to pursue my objective but uncompromising approach towards human rights abuses in this world of ours. What did we call it? Ah yes; my passion projects.

I remember the day when it happened.

It was the day that the earth shook.

Nope. It wasn’t the plague. But as I have said to you before, I sometimes wonder. Had we never got to experience a global pandemic in our lifetime, I am still not sure whether or not we would have met. Long before the lockdowns, I was lacking that courage.

But it was time well spent. Social distancing and all that. No longer under the influence of others. I speak my mind. I act out as my heart rules.   

The day the earth shook was the day that you and I met.

Today is your birthday. Stay inside awhile. And the day before that, it was the eleven-month anniversary of us agreeing to be together. 

Brooklyn; you will love it here. But I did warn you. Heads will turn as we waltz our way through the main road. From top to bottom. Not because; well, you know. But because you’re so damn gorgeous.

My Love; I love being around Batingan. But can we please go to Metro Manila more often. There is just so much to see and do there. The gardens, the opera house, the markets, the barrios. The museums. The galleries. And the woman with one and a half thousand pairs of shoes. 

Happy Natal Day.

Mahal Kita.

But Jesus Loves you more. 

‘Against all odds, I still hope to meet a man who will overlook my birth gender and care more about mutual understanding. I want him to take me as an individual. He doesn’t have to accept me as a woman because I’m not one …. and never will be. We should gradually learn about each other and decide if we should live together. I prefer him to be gentle, polite, honest and educated. He should be able to overcome obstacles in life and still maintain a positive outlook. I hope to find him eventually, but have no idea when. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s in the hands of destiny.’

From Ladyboys; The Secret World of Thailand’s Third Gender – Published by Maverick House, 2008.

THE OTHER

If I can recall, I first encountered reference being made to ‘the other’ during my first year of English Literature studies at varsity. I became accustomed to the notion that it was a generally accepted frame of reference for those who were different from me. Or to be more specific, the writer’s point of reference or point of view being narrated in the literary text. This was particularly pertinent during our studies of what were referred to as post-colonial texts. But it was only years later that I discovered to my absolute horror that referencing ‘the other’ was nothing more than a lazy but racist reference to those that were being subjugated under colonial rule.

Even more striking was the discovery I made in recent days when I began processing the first two volumes of Virginia Woolf’s Collected Essays where when speaking of those who were essentially inhabitants of the back of beyond on a dark continent somewhere out there, Mrs. Woolf nonchalantly makes reference to ‘savages’. I ask you, this coming from a woman who to my mind did more for gender rights and equality than most could possibly muster in a lifetime. It reawakened in me a sad reality of life.

That while franchised members of the LGBTQI+ family stridently seek equality amongst all others, they can be racist too. Also, I was reminded of a family friend’s remarks just recently when he drew a line in the sand and declared that even being referenced as a ‘straight’ gentleman could very well be discriminatory in the sense that said family friend must now be referred to as being ‘bent’ owing to the fact that he is openly gay. I had to wonder. What would such derogatory, or worse, references, make me?

Well, I can tell you this much, in weeks gone by, I have been referred to as being feminine. Interestingly enough, mind you, one of the cool copy-written slogans on the dating website where Samantha and I originally met was that ‘nice men date transsexual or transgender women’. But I think I prefer the more universal proclamation that ‘it takes a real man’ to love a transgender woman. Sad as it still feels to have to wear labels in order to educate and inform, or seek acceptance, not attention mind you, this latter statement does feel empowering.

But in recent weeks, I came across a structural reference to ‘the other’ which in the context of today’s life and times of the alienated South African, I found to be even more horrifying, perhaps even on the scale of Samantha’s country’s profiling scorecard in which case, she must still tick off the block that will blunt her as a ‘man’. In that country’s case, there is no place for the ‘other’, certainly not for a talented, gifted and ethical transpinay. But let’s return to Cape Town, never mind the rest of my (?) country, where I expressed my abject disgust in an amended form of structural racism committed by the Provincial Government ruled, not by the African National Congress, but by the Democratic (?) Alliance.

Honest to God, there are still those politicians who continue to patronize, and insinuate or assume that those who they have been elected to serve are basically still ‘dumb-asses’. Dear readers, here are some of the latest revelations of structural racism in the city that I was born. It is blatant and devious in the extreme. If you are, let’s just say, a conscientious objector against all forms of racism, you are now able to tick yourself off as ‘other’ on the pivotal first page that you are required to fill out should you wish to apply for a formal position within the Provincial Government of the Western Cape, South Africa, ruled by the Democratic Alliance, not the ANC. In doing so, you conscientiously object to being referred to in racial terms, whether, by law, you are white, colored, Indian or black. But you still have to ask yourself. What is the point? Unless you are authentically African in the eyes of this racist regime, you are already on the way to being ‘formally’ disqualified. Now, this naïve but insulting maneuver pulled off by the DA was in response to what to my mind was a brave but ethical response by one South African.

Based on the foundations of his credentials, the gentleman in question felt that he had a fair to good chance of being successful with his application. He deemed it to be abhorrent that he pass himself off as Colored. So in view of the fact that he was born and bred on the continent of Africa, he felt that it was morally prudent and Constitutionally acceptable that he pass himself off as African. Needless to say that he actually got the job! But given that the bureaucratic wheels turn very slowly in this country, it took a while for the regime to find out that he was ‘not African’.

You see, in terms of structural racism in this country, if you are African, you are, strictly speaking, black. But if you are white, colored, purple or pink in this country, you are not. You are not African. Henceforth, amongst a number of reasons why this alienated writer wishes to migrate is due to racism.

Watching Human Rights, Zero Tolerance and Forgiveness

Dear Readers.

I was not planning to write this story until Human Rights Day, 21 March 2021 came and went. There are reasons why I decided to put together an article on human rights. I have to tell you that for me personally, that day, here in Cape Town, started out quite blissfully. But to be quite honest with you, it ended in tragedy, somewhere near Manila. Much earlier that morning, I was inspired by a rarely experienced single act of kindness. But my night came to a close as I allowed my conscience, my heart, to reflect on personal pain and all of the hardships that surround it.

Also, a number of serious events have been playing on my mind in the last few weeks. And it all started with not one but two very bad arguments within the space of a week. This forthright article will cover the following subjects. Human Rights Day as it is (meant to be) celebrated in South Africa, what actually happened on this past human rights day, an observance of human rights across the world and, in particular, the Philippines, the island nation on which my partner was born.

This online essay also lets off a loud echo in (now) taking the line of zero tolerance to matters, utterances, proclamations and behavioral patterns that pretty much affect each and every human being on this planet. As to the rights of others, the flora and fauna perhaps, that will be addressed in a later letter boldly labeled CLIMATE CHANGE!. But I close this article with hope and inspiration running through my veins when I bid you good night with a special message on forgiveness.

Speaking of hope, I have another article in the pipeline entitled A Place Called Hope.

HUMAN RIGHTS IN SOUTH AFRICA

Since South Africa’s democratic transformation, Human Rights Day has been celebrated as a national holiday. It is also held to commemorate the dozens of men and women who were callously and cowardly shot in the back in a town called Sharpeville. This was way back in the sixties before you and I were even conceived. After the Group Areas Act’s hammer came down with full force, the apartheid regime forcibly removed all the people who were living there.

The town was defiantly renamed Triompf. Sadly today, not many South Africans know this much about their country’s history, nor do they seem to care much either. Because on this public holiday, this is what they do. Drink. Lots. And later tonight, the men will be going on a raping spree. They will be abusing women. These days, they abuse young men too, particularly if they happen to be part of the LGBTQI+ family.

And given this country’s history, as well as the liberal Constitution it has, it is particularly galling. Same sex marriages are now allowed but it had to take an amendment of this act to make sure that home affairs officials carry out the administrative duties required. Because even up to now, they refuse to do so. Out of sheer prejudice? Out of ignorance? I can no longer tolerate this. Samantha, on the other hand, and she’s a transpinay for crying out loud, would much rather leave them be.

As far as she is concerned, her fight is done. She is tired, she wants to rest. But for me, the gloves came off. After Lockdown 2020 happened, I decided to keep them off for good. More on these matters later, but in the meantime, do note this. South Africa holds a record for the number of public holidays held. As far as I am concerned, it is just another excuse to go drinking, raping and killing. They hold records in these departments too.

They also hold the record for the highest rates of unemployment in the world. All because of what? I’ll tell you why before we go on to a rather touching story. Racism. And corruption.

WHAT HAPPENED ON HUMAN RIGHTS DAY, 21 MARCH 2021

It was an early Sunday morning. For the last four or so years, it remains my favorite time of the week. I am up extremely early. After consuming some of my books (which I will be covering in a later blog entitled My Reading Process for Now), a mug of coffee and no less than three cigarettes, I’m taking a hot but quick shower. Here in Cape Town, we simply cannot waste water. Once I have fully dried myself off, I’ve slipped on my favorite jeans, blanket shirt (a comedian back in the day once called me Lumberjack) and trademark hiking boots which incidentally, are now falling apart.

I am dead on time for the first city bus that leaves this run-down town called Brooklyn. Being a Sunday morning, the bus ride is swift and generally uneventful. But as the driver races through the industrial and gentrified areas on the outskirts of what is a rather small city in comparison to other parts of the world, I notice things that people with other preoccupations would not generally take note of. For instance, there are the scenes of men and women crawling out from under their cardboard blankets to proceed with the daily grind of foraging for food.

As the bus makes its way into the city terminus, you cannot help but notice the forgotten people. They are lying in makeshift tents just outside of Jan van Riebeeck’s Castle. They are strewn across The Parade which used to be a parade ground for the corporal punishment of slaves during this city’s first one hundred years or so of colonialism. But I literally race my way through the quiet city, right past the Houses of Parliament and the Catholic Church Cathedral. And there they are again. The homeless and downtrodden making what they can of life in A Place called Hope.

But the excitement starts to boil as I reach out for my crisp copy of The Sunday Times. I gleefully grasp a copy of the local weekly The Daily Maverick. But when I reach the checkout counter, the young lady wishes to know whether or not I have her store’s shopper’s card. It entitles you to numerous discounts and specials on thousands of items in the store. It also entitles you to a free copy of The Daily Maverick.

I politely responded in the negative and let it be known that I was quite happy to fork out the twenty rands required to purchase the paper. But no. This young lady insisted. Indeed, she would not give up until she had located an early morning shopper who held one of these precious ‘gold cards’. She reached out to a kind old lady queuing up just behind me and enquired whether or not she could swipe her card. Certainly, and by all means.

Such kindness. So early in the morning. The young lady, going the extra mile as a checkout clerk, had nothing to gain by her magnanimous act. I gently tossed a few rands in her direction and gratefully suggested that she go and purchase herself a chocolate for her morning tea. I thanked her, bid her a good morning, and rushed off to my favorite coffee shop to go and devour my morning papers. This young lady’s act had elevated my bipolar mood quite considerably.

HUMAN RIGHTS IN THE PHILIPPINES

While I was absorbing the news of the week, Samantha was frantically wondering where her family’s next meal was going to come from. It was yet another luckless day of finding odd-jobs, housekeeping and washing chores in the main, that would yield a handful of pesos to feed her family small portions of noodles and fish. And perhaps a cup of coffee and a few smokes for her troubles. There is a reason why jobs like these are hard to come by in the Philippines.

At the moment, the majority of the country’s lower to middle class citizens are out of work, if not penniless. The government of the day is doing little to nothing to help its people get through the harshness of the (necessary?) hard lockdown restrictions. This is so contradictory to that of another island nation, Jacinda Adern’s New Zealand. Since the days of the Marcos dictatorship and the woman of thousands upon thousands of gaudy shoes, the Philippine Islands’ human rights record remains pitiful.

There was a glimmer of hope for these beautiful islands when the first years of democracy were heroically shepherded by a woman named Corazon Aquino. So, imagine that; after hundreds of years of patriarchal rule by the Spaniards who witnessed the earliest shoots of the islands’ unique transpinay population, the twentieth century Americans and the corrupt Marcos years, the Philippines was led by a woman.

The island nation would see another female president before the thuggish Duterte took the reins of power. Mrs. Aquino died at the Manila airport after endeavoring to stave off yet another military coup. And today, the Filipino regime should continue to hang its head in shame over its appalling human rights record. So it goes that if you thought life was challenging for the lower to average income Filipino, you should try out for life as a transpinay.

This country excuses its human rights abuses for its staunch Catholic orientation and observances. Transpinays enjoy no recognition of their gender. They are also not afforded equal rights in terms of finding meaningful or formal employment, as well as gaining entry into some of the country’s fine universities. And should a Filipina transpinay ever make it this far, there are those private corporations that remain adamant that they will behave and dress as men do.

HUMAN RIGHTS ACROSS THE WORLD

But like South Africa, the Philippines’ human rights record pales into insignificance in comparison to that of others. In the pot-boiling atmosphere of a global pandemic that continues to ravish the poorest of the poor and the most marginalized of all men, women and children, let’s take a quick tour of the world. We stay in Southeast Asia for a moment. While the Philippines’ neighboring island nation, Indonesia, would appear to be making progress in favor of democracy and equal rights for all, its rainforests and the indigenous peoples who inhabit them, are being razed to the ground.

The Nobel Peace Prize winning Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s Myanmar is in the iron grip of yet another military coup. And still to this day, this impoverished country’s Muslim minorities are being cruelly persecuted. Speaking of Muslims, go to China and witness if you can the holding of thousands of Muslims in concentration camps reminiscent of those that once held the Jews of pre-war Nazi Germany.

And speaking of the Jews, go pay a visit to Israel, otherwise known as the Land of Palestine. Still to this day, the Palestinians remain trapped in what amounts to nothing more than ghettoes. Palestinians are afforded no equal rights over there and the conditions under which they must live remain appalling, if not cruel and inhumane. Staying in the Middle East, it is argued that the Arabian nation, Yemen, now holds the record for the worst record of human rights in all of this world’s countries.

But to be quite honest with you, in different degrees, it is no better than anywhere else in the world. The Arabian nations continue to treat its women as second-class citizens and will willingly stone them to death for ‘committing adultery’. Lesbians, gays and transgender men and women struggle to live from one day to the next in Museveni’s Uganda. Returning to South Africa, resourceful and enterprising (mostly African and Asian) foreigners are treated as scapegoats for just about every shred of inequality affecting this country.

South Africa is regarded as the most unequal nation on earth in accordance with the Gini coefficient measurement scale. But South America’s Brazil runs a very close second. And while Jair Bolsonaro and his corrupt cronies treat the poorest of the poor and the most marginalized as trash for the towering landfill sites, they continue to burn down the Amazon rainforests, leaving these forests’ native peoples with nowhere left to go.

Finally, Samantha’s dream is to emigrate to Australia. I fully support her in this and hope to join her as well. While there will no doubt be a number of challenges to overcome, we believe that as a couple, we will be able to live the lives that we have chosen for ourselves. There would certainly be opportunities for us should we be allowed to settle. Indeed, Australia is well-known for its flourishing population of migrant South Africans and Filipinos.

But what of that country’s Aborigines? I ask you.

ZERO TOLERANCE

I have simply had enough. I have been witnessing human rights abuses from a school-going age during an era when racial laws were entrenched. And today, must I continue to witness racial inequalities perpetuated by the current African National Congress Government who, incidentally, are encouraged by opposition parties in different forms? This government, the opposition parties, and the people who support them, pay only lip service to the brilliantly liberal and equalizing Constitution that was ironically overseen by this country’s current president and signed off by none other than Nelson Mandela.

Earlier in this essay, I had already hinted that two factors influence this country’s downfall. Racism and corruption. As Jacob Zuma’s kleptocratic rule was winding to a close, I used to remark that he and his enabling cronies were rank amateurs in comparison to what was to come. And today, those who remember my words can witness for themselves what is happening in this country today. I am one of those who would have loved to help build a flourishing economy from which all could benefit.

Only to have it taken away from me by one of the most racist and prejudicial acts of government since the days of apartheid and pretty much anywhere else in the world today. It is called Broad-based Black Economic Empowerment. Apart from the malevolent Chinese regime, does this government, and the government that may well follow, honestly believe that the rest of the world’s enterprising and hardworking entrepreneurs have blinkers on their eyes?

Anyhow, as late as last year, as Trump’s racism clashed with black lives that matter, I declared myself to be an antiracist. I will no longer compromise my values and principles. Nor will I accept the excuses laid out by Christian, Jewish and Muslim fundamentalists that continue to deny people who identify themselves within the rainbow coalition that is LGBTQI+, not by choice but through birth. These fundamentalists are people who have been selectively misappropriating texts that were originally inspired by the Almighty.

The annexation of the land of Canaan and Palestine. The Crusades of the Middle East. The Jihads throughout the world, still to this day. The persecution of the Jews for centuries. Slavery. Colonialism. Nation and empire building. All in the name of God? I do not believe so. So I say to you. End the racism. End the xenophobia. End the homophobia. And end the transphobia. End the rape and pillaging of the environment.

Phobia. Interesting word this. Fear. Gun-toting angry men OD’ing on testosterone have fears? Real fears? Really? What are you afraid of? After centuries of stealing and killing you honestly fear those who choose to love and live peaceful, prosperous lives? Or do you (really) fear God who is so, so much mightier than the sun that you and your ancestors have been worshipping for thousands of years.

FORGIVENESS

A kind, wise and loving pop asks his son for forgiveness. He lays down the reasons for his apparent harshness towards his (prodigal) son. But his son had already begged profusely for forgiveness after offending and hurting his pop countless numbers of times. Whether this was intended or not is beside the point. The man and his loving wife celebrate their son’s relief by providing him with delicacies, in part to commemorate the Death and Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ and Savior.

The father does not believe in racism and gender abuse.

The son is an antiracist.

A loving and beautiful Filipina begs forgiveness for abusing her loving and devoted South African partner. But she was trying so hard to put food on the table for her family. She feels shame and regret, but, honest to God, has nothing to be ashamed of. To be sure, she is not accustomed to someone else endeavoring to provide for her. He in turn apologizes not only to her but to her mother for being insensitive and perhaps even ignorant of the circumstances under which they must live.

He is trans-oriented.

She is transpinay.

They were born this way.

And they choose to love.

Mahal Kita!

When all hell breaks loose

I recall a conversation I had with someone a few years back.

Was it a family member? It was over the question of whether heaven and hell exists. No such thing, the argument went. And for a believer, a follower, this is something that simply cannot be proven unless you have certain gifts which of course, you would tend to believe are god-given. There are those, even followers, or believers, who believe that when one dies, then that is it. Over and out and no more. You no longer exist. Well, if that were the case then that might have been alright.

Because after all, there is nothing.

But what has plagued me in the past, what still irks me today is this thought. There are two frontiers to be navigated. The first is dealing with the physical death. I’m leaving you with a paragraph on the second concern a bit later on, but I have to admit that as a human being, it does strike fear in my own heart at times. The root causes of this physical transition need to be examined. If I were to be plagued with lung or stomach cancer for instance, or HIV/Aids (?) it is almost certain that I would have to deal with a gross amount of physical and emotional pain. And god help me if I have no medical coverage.

I had another thought while putting together this post.

Is it any wonder that many people get nowhere in life. I am guilty as sin, as they say. Forever putting off good projects that should be seeing the light of day. And seeing a bit of the world before I die. Well, I celebrated my (our) cultural diversity in a much earlier post. You’re more than welcome to visit that page too when you have a moment. Closing that post, I expressed an open-book desire to spend time in Southeast Asia.

And by dint of that it would mean spending more time with Samantha and her family, because after all, she is from the Philippines. Everyone should have a bucket list, even if it means going no further than to the public gardens or the town’s big ballgame. It is still something. I had mixed feelings about this. Could I blame others for my own shortcomings or missed opportunities? Could I use them as an excuse for putting off what my heart desires?

Could I suggest that in giving due consideration to what they may seek and how they may feel puts me off of my own plans? No, can’t do that. No matter how unhappy it makes the other feel, bold decisions need to be taken and followed through, particularly if it is for a good cause. And I honestly do not care what others may have to say about my head in the clouds syndrome, Love is all that matters.

Because have you seen the state of the world lately, your neighbourhood even?

The shocking state of public hospitals in general send a shudder down my spine.

Speaking of which, our hospitals and clinics over here are not coping.

Why? I was reading the Sunday papers just last week, and again the other day. It made for rather bleak reading indeed. You see, one local medical expert believes that a third and even a fourth wave of the novel coronavirus is imminent. And now we learn that there have been gross mutations of what was originally defined as COVID-19. As it turns out, hospitals in general are running out of beds and oxygen, both figuratively and literally. And by the time workable vaccines are ready for delivery, our country will no doubt be at the back of the queue owing to the shocking state of our country’s financial resources.

It is at this point that I wish to remark that, for once, our government cannot take all the blame for the shockingly high rates of infections in our country.

When last I checked, our country was ranked fifth in the world for the highest number of infections. The USA is the worst off and as the world’s richest nation as it were, even its health services industry is not coping. No, more than enough warnings and instructions were given on how to counter this dreadful virus. But no, many people walk about without facemasks.

I had a classic touch of déjà vu as well.

You see, years ago – it does seem like an eternity – our country was engulfed in the world’s worst wave of HIV/Aids infections. But at least the crass homophobic and transphobic myth was killed. It came home to all and sundry that Aids was not a ‘gay’ disease. And yet still. Men still believed that they were cursed by a demon. And by raping a virgin of school-going age, they would be cured of a disease that could only be transmitted sexually and through blood transfusions. Even the country’s former president (in all honesty?) believed that by taking a shower, he would be safe as houses.

This after allegedly raping a young woman who is now dead.

This passage reminds me of a previous blog post, entitled Writing with Pride, Part Two, in which I related my earliest experiences in close contact with people suffering from what was known as full-blown Aids back then. Be sure to visit that post if you are a first-time visitor here.

Then president Thabo Mbeki spent many months waxing and waning while chewing his pipe, coming to the conclusion that there is no link between HIV and Aids (?) and stubbornly refused to sign into law the health reforms and subsequent actions that would be required to rescue large swathes of this country’s population from the dreaded disease. Sadly, while reforms have been made, it is the poorest of the poor who remain at the back of the queue as it were. Alongside of the elderly, those plagued with underlying medical conditions, this country’s poorest are the most vulnerable and most likely to be infected by the novel coronavirus.

And then there is still the second reality of death that needs to be negotiated.

What happens to us after we die? There are those amongst the non-believers and atheists who are quite okay with dying. Because after all, when the body dies, then that’s it. Nothing. Nada. Wala. But many Believers, doesn’t matter which religion, believe otherwise. And so my simplified argument went during that discussion; that if there is such a thing as Heaven and Hell, I would much rather go to heaven, thank you very much. Gracias. Salamat. Because I cannot imagine spending an eternity in hell.

And to think; John Lennon dared to imagine that there is no heaven, above us only skies. And no hell below us.

Just last week, you could almost detect a tearful glint in the eyes of current South African President, Cyril Ramaphosa as he announced that the country would regress from Level 1 to Level 3 lockdown and/or curfew restrictions. I fear that a harder lockdown is imminent. All hell may well be breaking loose for the time being. Because have you seen how (well) your local celebrities who should know better (or do they really know?) were celebrating the dawn of 2021? Sheer madness, I tell you. I for one was safely hunkered down in my room, closing off another calamitous year traditionally (for me) before the pumpkin hour.

Today, while I still loathe this man whose high net worth runs into the millions in US dollar terms, he comes across as something of an angel compared to outgoing POTUS, Donald Trump. Come 20 January 2021, there will be tears when this man leaves the stately inauguration parade grounds. Or will it be held in camera? After all, the wise old man that is about to become the next US President does seem to have his wits about him, never mind what right-wing naysayers (without facemasks to boot) are saying about Alzheimer’s or senility.

Tears of regret and remorse? More like tears of joy, actually. I for one cannot wait to see the back of Trump.

Does he bear the brunt of responsibility for his country’s appalling state in reaction to the onset of the novel coronavirus that spread rapidly across the globe just over a year ago?

Does Cyril Ramaphosa finally feel a sense of remorse over what has transpired over the course of what must be one of the most horrifying years in living memory? But then again, had you been living that long in this country but on the other side of the railroad tracks as it were, you would be inclined to shake your head and say; no, I’ve seen worse. I’ve had worse. And after all, the challenges that this country are faced with actually have little to do with COVID-19. Indeed, smaller countries whose gross domestic product status is on a par with that of South Africa seem to be coping rather well in comparison.

Could Ramaphosa be coming to terms with the dated lamentation issued by one Harry S Truman that the buck stops here? Only time will tell.