Another man’s pain

In his last days he was flippant. I don’t know if it came from the knowledge that death was imminent. I know he was on second-line antiretrovirals. Those drugs induce hallucinations in some people. In fact it was difficult to conduct a coherent conversation with him for long. Yet he always found reason to chat. For years we had been buddies. He was always stoic about his affliction. Not once did he mention it to me. When his ailing wife died we all knew from the whisperings what had killed her.

The signs were there for all to see. Later he asked a friend for contacts of a traditional healer who claimed to heal Aids. I know he took copious amounts of a herbal brew. He would ask me in for evening tea as he seeped on the brew. It was for his allergic condition, he said. That time he was still strong. Nothing in his demeanor displayed anguish. He had a certain air of invincibility about him. I was never worried about him. He seemed in tune with himself. The frequent chest infections only bothered in as far as he talked about them in passing. They are all he talked about when it came to his health.

My chest this, my chest that. It was an allergy he said. He’d had it since childhood. I did not bother him with questions or opinions. I think that is what he liked about me. I never judged him. Yet I think I never helped him much. Perhaps he found my indifference comforting. I know men hate those who see and expose their weaknesses. We all knew what he was going through but I did not invade his privacy. It was for him to choose what to share. In the end all he could share were his chest afflictions.

My eyes watched- they just watched

 Then he heard of the prominent preacher who claimed to heal Aids. He became a sojourner in the land. I suspect that is the worst thing that happened to him. He had little money left. I guess he invested handsomely in the offering and tithe. He would travel wherever the preacher went. It was for restoration and redemption he told me. His little radio was always tuned to the preacher’s station. As we took tea the preacher’s voice rose and fell in the background.

He made extra money working part-time as a repairman. Something he never quite shook off even after salvation was the habit of over-pricing spares. He literally drove himself out of business. Also with electricity venturing deeper into the rural areas his specialty diesel engines were getting fewer and fewer. There was not much work. The ‘big’ money of yesterday was gone. The good old days were a favourite of his. He loved to talk about them. I listened and laughed. Sometimes, I shared my own experiences.

The only thing that really pained him was not his medical condition. It was his childlessness. And how he loved children! So much so; that all the mothers in the neighbourhood loved him. All the children in the neighbourhood were his buddies. I know there was a child by his wife but his in-laws insisted on retaining her. They feared she would be mistreated by his mother. Apparently his mother had a bad reputation in their village. There was also his nephew by a sister. He raised that child. As happens in some African communities, boys born out of wedlock are ostracized. He was such a child but my friend called him his own. He was in the second year of university when he suddenly took ill.

I had moved to a different town but he called me to tell me his boy was sick. Medics at the local hospital could not tell exactly what was wrong with him. Doctors in public hospitals were on strike. He wanted him moved to a referral hospital. I don’t know how he expected me to help if not just my sympathy. He moved him to a mission hospital where he died before a correct diagnosis. I remember his pain when he called to tell me his only hope was gone. Not once but many times he repeated those words.

 When I saw him next his health was waning. He still put on a brave face. He never complained. But something had changed. He now went to the local HIV/Aids clinic. Workmates say he had lost his mind somewhat. I remember sitting in his boss’s office then he walked in nonchalantly. He was looking for me, he said. When I said I still had something to do, he started picking things on the boss’s desk. He asked if par chance he could have left his pen there.

Someone explained to me it was the effect of the second-line antiretrovirals. He was still going to the prayer conventions. I am told he stopped taking medication for a while. When illness struck again it was difficult. He called me a number of times. My only advice was to follow doctor’s orders. He asked many times when I would visit next. Somehow, he had this view that things had gone so well for me. He wondered why I never called him as often as I used to. To be honest our conversations were not what they used to be. They always turned to his loss of hope after his boy’s death. I found it depressing talking to him.

 Then he called and I did not pick his call. He called another time and I still did not pick his call. I would always call back but not these two or three times. Instead I called a mutual friend and asked after him. He was ailing but still resolute, I was told. Hardly a month later, our mutual friend called. Our friend hung himself in his house.