A Death in the Family

The mother of one of the boys we're sponsoring died yesterday (Monday, March 9th). We knew her for only a few short weeks, but her death has affected both of us strongly. Her name was Busisiwe (Boo-si-see-way), and she was about 36 years old. She leaves behind three children -- 14, 11, and 3 years old -- who are now orphans, as their father died a couple of years ago.

We met Busisiwe through her eleven-year-old son, Thabiso, an exceptionally bright boy who speaks excellent English and has surprisingly good manners, but who also skips school more often than not, preferring to hang out in town acting like a tough guy. I first met Thabiso back in December when I was filling our new car at the only gas station in town. I noticed him circling the car at a distance and flashing a wide grin my way. I smiled back at him, and he came over and said "You have a beautiful car, sir." He then asked for money. I reflexively said no, but then on impulse gave him 5 rand (about 50 cents). I drove off thinking what a charming little con man he was and never expected to see him again.

We were still living at the School for the Deaf at the time, which is on the opposite side of town from the filling station. The very next day Thabiso was at my door, flashing the same wide grin. "I've come to greet you, sir," he said. I asked him how he'd found me, and he pointed to the car -- he'd recognized it as he prowled around town that day. I asked him what he'd bought for himself with the money I'd given him the day before, expecting him to say he'd bought some candy or a soft drink, but he replied, "I bought some bread for my mother." Con or not, he had me right there.

From then on Thabiso came to greet me regularly. I'd give him cookies and milk or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and he never asked me for any more money. One day he brought his friend Senzo with him and announced that they were going to wash our car. I got them some soapy water, and then Scott and I watched them go to town on our car. They didn't do a great job -- Scott and I had to rewash the car later to get rid of all the soap streaks -- but I gave each of them 10 rand anyway. I have never seen kids' eyes light up the way theirs did when I handed them each a 10 rand note. They ran off whooping.

Scott and I moved to Mabuda Farm shortly thereafter, and it took Thabiso a while to find our new home. But within a couple of weeks he'd resumed his regular visits, often bringing along his sidekick Senzo. Scott and I soon came to realize that they have a pretty bad (and well-earned) reputation in town as truants and trouble-makers, but they've never caused us any problems -- they just come by to get fed occasionally. We regularly urge them to go to school, and sometimes they do.


Thabiso on left, Senzo on right.

About four weeks ago, Thabiso told us that his mother was very sick. We hadn't met his mother or seen where he lives, so we asked him to take us to his homestead, which is in one of the desperately poor communities Scott visits with the Home-Based Care team. Thabiso's homestead ranks among the poorest we've seen -- just a one-room hut with no running water or electricity, and no food in evidence. Thabiso's three-year-old brother, Machaha, was playing happily in the dirt outside, naked except for a smile as big as Thabiso's.

Thabiso's mother, Busisiwe, was indeed very sick. Though she spoke English very well, she was very quiet with us. She seemed confused and distant and had a wracking cough. Scott arranged for her to come into the hospital to meet with a doctor the next day. From then on, things moved very quickly. Like so many thousands of others here, she was already far gone with HIV-related opportunistic infections. The process of getting on anti-retroviral medication is an arduous one here, but Scott worked hard to expedite the process for her. We began supplying her and her children with food, in order to build up her ability to tolerate the strong drugs. At first we had high hopes that the medication might help her, but as each successive test or examination came back, it became clear how very sick she was.

In the end, Busisiwe never had a chance to begin the medication. Last Wednesday, she was admitted to the hospital with swelling around her heart and severely congested lungs. She remained in the hospital over the weekend, where she was visited by her two young sons. The infections were too far gone, however, and she died on Monday afternoon.

Scott called me from the hospital that afternoon to give me the news. He asked me if I'd seen Thabiso. I hadn't, but as I was driving with our visiting friend Karen to the hospital, I spotted Thabiso and Senzo playing in the churchyard below the hospital. Both were dusty and dirty and covered in grass; it was clear that neither had been to school that day. I honked and pulled over, but Thabiso, perhaps thinking I was going to berate him for not going to school, took off running. In the back of my mind, I also wondered if he didn't also sense that I had bad news about his mother. I jumped out of the car and chased him briefly, but he had a good head start on me and vanished down into the valley below.

I called Scott and told him I'd sighted Thabiso, and it turned out that Scott was with Thabiso's uncle, who lives on the same homestead, and who had come to the hospital to check on his sister, Busisiwe, not knowing that she had already died. Scott said he'd bring Thabiso's uncle down to the church and that we'd look for him together. When they arrived at the church, Thabiso's uncle thought it best to drive back to their homestead to wait for Thabiso there. The five of us, including Thabiso's friend Senzo, who'd materialized just as we were getting into the car, started down the muddy, rutted, dirt road that leads to their homestead. Thabiso's uncle soon saw Thabiso in the distance and jumped out of the car, running after him. Miraculously, he caught him and brought him back to our car idling by the side of the road.

Scott, Karen, and I got out of the car with Senzo. I could tell from the confused, mistrustful look on Thabiso's face that his uncle hadn't told him what had happened, and that he probably still thought he was in trouble for skipping school. As we approached him, I suddenly wondered how we were going to handle this delicate situation. Scott was already very emotional from the shock of Busisiwe's quick death and having to break the news to her brother. Thabiso's uncle, having caught the boy, was pacing distraught by the side of the road, lost in his own thoughts. It suddenly became clear to me that I was going to have to tell the eleven-year-old boy standing in the road in front of me that his mother had just died.

I successfully fought off the tears I felt welling in my own eyes, and took Thabiso gently by both shoulders. I simply said "Thabiso... you know that your mother has been very sick. You did all that you could to help her, but she was just too sick. She didn't make it, and she died this afternoon." He looked around at his uncle, then at the rest of us, taking a minute to comprehend the news, and then he burst into tears. I pulled him to me, his head only reaching my stomach, and held him close while he sobbed into my shirt. The bunch of us stood there for several long minutes which will live in my mind always -- Thabiso's uncle pacing off his grief; Scott comforting Thabiso's teary friend Senzo; Karen standing silently by, and Thabiso clinging to me crying: a strange tableau, the group of us standing there at the side of the dirt road, next to our car with its doors flung open, curious people on their way home from work and school passing by, wondering what was going on....

As I stood there comforting Thabiso, just letting him cry, I looked out over his head and across the beautiful valley before us bathed in late afternoon light, and I thought of the countless similar deaths that had taken place in homesteads right before me and all over Swaziland. The scope of the problem seems so daunting and insurmountable that we often wonder if anything can be done to stem it, and if our presence here makes any difference at all. But as I stood there, the thought came to me that perhaps this is what brought me here; perhaps I was meant to be here for just this moment, for just this one person, to hold this young boy who came into my life at a gas station three months ago, and to stroke his head upon the death of his mother.