Death. It is imminent and so unexpected that it just breathes its cold, heartless breath in your neck as you attempt to type up an article.
A woman, huisvriendin of my parents, died tragically on Friday 16 August. My mother ran into my room in hysterics, waking me up by yelling that she’s dead and falling onto my bed.
The freak accident occurred in Roodepoort, my area. What is more terrifying is to have given up her family’s contact details so yet another newspaper that lacks conscience and compassion can intrude in private misery just to get online hits off an impersonal profile.
Problem is, I can’t really say that about my colleagues or our publication. I understand that it is the general view and that newspapers tend to intrude. However, the Record’s Jeanou is probably the best journalist to speak to any mourning family. He will comfort you and write such a careful and caring profile that telephone conversations will feel like hugs. His condolences are real, he’s not just another media moron. I’ve heard it, I’ve read it.
Meerkat though, seeming ruthless at times, took some careful steps in speaking to the woman’s daughter, a once-upon-a-time close friend of mine. I spoke to her for the first time in three years on Saturday, and she choked on her tears. The conversation ended abruptly then, but Meerkat extracted the necessary information painlessly days later.
I cannot feel less of an idiot for sharing her details. I apologise. I can imagine that any single phone call from anyone, be it family, friend or foe, would upset a mourning person.
I also truly feel bad that, when I was in my teens, I insulted the woman for being such an overwhelming and overprotective matriarch, that I felt annoyed when she visited and that I was abrupt when she asked unexpected questions. I truly learned from her. She was a morning person and on the few occasions that I slept over, breakfast would be ready before I awoke and the house already cleaned. She enjoyed quaint coffee places and frequented them with me. We went shopping for snyerspakkies and she taught me about makeup and hair care, much like a mother.
Here is a woman I once knew. Here is her white car, much like that of her daughter’s, purchased recently as one of the few treats she afforded herself – crushed mercilessly as if to accentuate that her time has come.
Being named Mathilde, this Astertjie regularly suffers nicknames like Tillie, Tilly, Tilda, Tildy and Tilla. She called me “Tilsasa, great female warrior”, which I guess originated from the meaning of ‘Mathilde’. Nevertheless it was strange, unique. She had a funny sense of humour, and laughed wholeheartedly.
This is by no means an obituary – I’m just wandering after a lost version of myself, one that she befriended. Of all the nicknames, I’ll hold this one dear.
