(In the passage an old school photograph helps Don Makatile mourn for his once active school friend, whose life is now slowly wasting away from AIDS.)\
1. The picture in the photo album; makes me cry in a way I have never wanted to cry about anything before. It shows three school boys, as happy and carefree as life in the 1980 Form 2 class could allow. The faces are clean and healthy, untouched even by the teenage scourge of acne.
2. The school uniform in the picture shows the elegant dress of the time: grey trousers worn together with sky – blue long – sleeved shirts. The shoes were the fashionable Pathfinder, black, that revealed a modest glimpse of the famed nylon socks. The scholar in the middle, wearing a navy – blue blazer, is someone I have known almost all my life – and right now he is slowly wasting away – succumbing to the ravages of AIDS.
3. He lies in bed waiting for the proverbial call fro Heaven. We have all been waiting with him, for eight long painful months. Once or twice I have thought about the wisdom of the Dutch government in legalizing euthanasia or mercy killing. There is no denying that my dear friend would be better off dead. Just the other day I witnessed his sister, another good friend of mine, trying to feed him a bowl of soft porridge. It was futile exercise. His mouth made movement s that had nothing to do with eating. The white stuff dribbled out of his mouth and some of it came back a nauseating yellow colour.
4. This is the same companion who used to feast on greasy potato chips – junk food. I remember he particularly liked avocado squashed inside a half – loaf of bread. He was the type who spoke with food in his mouth. This picture of him I particularly find difficult to erase form my memory.
5. Now, because of the ruthless affliction, he cannot chew a meager bowl of maize-meal soft porridge. I tried to bath him the other day. It was a scary experience. Each time I put the damp cloth anywhere on his frail body, an animal – like sound escaped his mouth. Do I call it a mouth? There is no word to describe it, for his mouth has become a place for the gathering of every type of blister. It is pitiful.
6. This is the friend we went to the golf course with to make a few extra cents. He is the athlete we swam with in the stream formed by the murky water flowing after a heavy rainfall. We almost always incurred the wrath of our parents. He is the fellow who, with the rest of us, forked out ten cents to bribe an unscrupulous cheap thug who would not admit us through an opening in the perimeter fence made of corrugated iron, at Orlando Stadium. I recall once we went to Parkie with him for the first time in our young lives and were taken aback by the magnificence of the roofing. Other railway stations had no such luxury.
7. I walked the length and breath of downtown Johannesburg with him, especially Market Street, in search of cheaper stores. I went to Fords burg with him to the movies. We played amateur soccer together long before the advent of international soccer in South Africa. We were always top of the noise – makers list at school.
8. He is the same person, Lord. How so we reminisce when all he does is grunt? How do I tell him I love him, so he can take that with him wherever he is headed? Like the rest of the careless city boys, he had a multiple of casual relationships, especially in the so-called safe days, when the worst that could happen to anybody was venereal disease. Yes, there is nothing for me to hide any more. His were more of freelance relationships. An educated man, he later heard about HIV / AIDS and the folly of casual relationships. I vividly remember the time we had Education for Living lessons. Every aspect of life was genuinely treated in these lessons – HIV / AIDS included. Now AIDS is killing my friend. Could there be some strange and obscure way he could have contracted the deadly disease? All I want now, and desperately, is that he should die. I do not think that makes me a bad person. He should depart so that merciless gossip can go with him. He should die so the picture l am left with should be the one in my treasured photo album, and leave me memories of how good a soccer player he once was.
9. Everyday of my life something within me dies when I visit him. I see how cruel AIDS can be. My heart bleeds for the youngsters who still think parties and casual relationships are the best things to have happened this century, when the reality is that people are dying alone in back rooms, in terrible pain and humiliation. I have slept in his bedroom a few times before and it did not always smell this foul. I have seen him naked an few times and though he was naturally slender, he has not always been this skeletal.
10. I have devoured almost every newspaper article I have found on HIV / AIDS and I am tired. I long to read something ads light as a love story, preferably one before the days of AIDS. Nothing heavy. Is it a sin to want a funeral this badly? I hope God understands.
11. I keep the photo of my friend in a special album. Even my wedding album, bought just after the big day in April 1998, already has a few dog – eared pages – not this one! Someone told me that one day when a museum is built in Kagiso, the growing township on the West Rand where I come from, this album should be among the items on display. He observed that it was full of dead people. I do not keep it for this reason, though it is true that the bulk of the faces that smile at me as I page through are dead. I keep it immortalize the cherished years of my youth. Sometimes I use it to remind my troublesome nephew I have not always been thirty-six. I was streetwise once and, like him, I deluded myself into thinking I had answers to most of the world's problems. I think it is good for him to know I did not have the answers, just as today's young folk do not have the answers either. No one has nay easy answers to the challenge of HIV / AIDS.
12. But what the young folk need to know is that while the road to AIDS starts at the wild funky parties and leads all too easily to quick senseless, casual relationships, it ends where my friend is now; in darkness, pain and ugliness. The photo is now wet with my tears. If fascinated my son to see him macho dad also has a weak side. Has he already intimated to his friends his newly discovered interesting story, I wonder? No matter – with one thousand six hundred new HIV infections everyday, mine are far from being the last tears that will be shed on the subject.
Adapted from: 'Please die, old friend'; an article by Don Makatile in Drum, 11 January, 2001.