Tall, dark and handsome. Black man with slim figure and long legs. Capable and articulate, in your late twenties, rising through corporate ranks. Women love you, and men look up to you, wondering how you buzz with such confidence. When you smile, your teeth sparkle white. Impeccably dressed, with just the right amount of flair.
We meet at work. I am the cat, you the mouse. Program managing a savings program, my job is to chase you, and you run away from me.
We keep running into each other. In Soweto. At Sakhumzi, I see you sitting down with a man. Among the throng of people, it is early evening as we get ready to run the JP Morgan outside of Wanderer’s. I spot a tall man wearing pink shorts. “Hi Mark!”
I see you at the gym, dominating step class. Always with that broad smile of yours, disarming the skeptic in us.
Disembarking from a London red eye, I drive to work. Wearing the latest London purchase: Pink heels with black and white dress. Behind me you call out, “Yooooooooooooh! Look at those shoes. And these calves! Wow!!!” I return your smile.
We become friends. We attend each other’s birthday parties. Like a bee, you buzz from one social event to the next. Always keeping your word and showing up with all of yourself. You come over one new year’s eve and meet my dad.
One day, you send me a picture. You’re smiling, carrying a man on your back, the same guy I saw you with at Sakhumzi. “Yes, you guessed it!” You come out to me. What an honor. Everyone else thinks you’re straight. You feel safe with me to share your secret. You invite me to join your friendship circle. I am the only one from work to attend your special events.
You are always available to meet with me. Calling me out on my nonsense and celebrating my wins. We are each other’s accountability partners. You move two and half blocks away from my place.
You are raising your two nephews, calling them your children. They call you dad. One day, the two young men walk to my place, carrying a bouquet of flowers. I continue see them around the neighborhood, walking around. You share your parenting principles. “Yes, they must walk! One needs to lose weight. No, I’m not going to take them around in my car. They must earn their keep!”
You are funding their education, a place to live, showing them how to live in this world. Generous with your time, you create a program for your colleagues at Standard Bank. “You know, these people. They don’t speak proper English. They must learn! English is the business language in South Africa. I know, school system is bad, and whatever! But they have to learn now.” You create a series of speaker series to come and speak to your cohort. Fully funded by the company, this mover and shaker. You invite me to speak, and I join you one evening. To say thanks, you gift me a small statue of a woman playing violin.
You live your purpose: Lift others as you rise.
Covid is coming to a close, and it’s already been ten years since we first met.
You send me a photo. Gaunt in a hospital gown, out of your body are tubes leading to a glass beaker full of pink liquid. I can’t stand to look at the screen, as if I am witnessing a scene of a fatal accident. It’s you. I can’t recognize this version of you.
Life’s energy drained from your body, I can’t see you. I need some time to get used to this…
One evening, as I sit down for dinner, your place 250meters from Andiccio. I feel guilty for not walking over. Why am I being such a scumbag?
Few days later, I get a message from mutual friend “Mark’s gone. He passed away yesterday.”
Chemo to fight off skin cancer was too much for your body, your immune system compromised by tuberculosis.
All I had to do was walk over. All I had to do was give you a call. All I had to do was show up to see you, even if words failed me. It is too late, and I cannot undo the past.
An advocate of ‘cameras on always’, I excuse myself from the screen. Like waves, the tide rises, and I swell inside, waves crashing into me. Thoughts of you escape my eyes. My face turns into mashed potato.
A virtual wake with 1000+ people dialing in. More would have joined, had they known about your passing. A colleague and a friend recounts a memory of you.
“We were celebrating with a bottle of champagne. But we didn’t have flutes. Mark was insistent that we needed flutes, so I had to go buy them before he would let us open the bottle. Mark knew how to celebrate. He was insistent in doing things right. That’s Mark for you”
I am so sorry.
I beat myself up into a pulp. It’s easy to get stuck in this loop of self-loathe. And with this pulp, I unroll sheets of paper mixed with guilt. And on this parchment, I rearrange my emotions in black and white to write this love letter to my friend who was once beautiful.
Dear Mark Mandla Nwaila, I miss you.
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