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1804 days and counting. The day was 23 March 2020, and a national lockdown was announced. 27 March 2020 the first local death is announced, and Covid-19 lockdown came into a very real effect. 19 November 2024 marks the one thousand, six hundred and ninety-eighth day of my own confinement since the pandemic in SA. 1804 days since I last willingly ventured off our property. Covid didn’t kick off my own self-imposed isolation, but it concreted my inability to leave, to go out. While so many others complained about, fought against, and protested lockdown, I secretly celebrated. I was no longer alone in being forced to be indoors, in being forced to stay away from offices, shops, malls, gyms, sports centres, and so my normal and this new normal were not so different. I was not so different anymore. But all good things must come to an end, and finally Covid faded away. This unwelcome, isolated way of being, of living, faded away, and with it, me feeling normal. I was back to being different, abnormal, atypical and those are the polite words that most people would use to describe me and my ways. Loner, loser, screwup, dopehead, doper, druggie, junkie, stoner, user, zombie, addict, I am. I am.

I keep asking myself why anyone would willingly re-enter a world that continuously abuses and trashes their sense of self. I do not know. Maybe they do not know who they are. Or they have so fully accepted the versions of themselves that they present, that they have forgotten. Avatar-like, their outer façade cleverly disguising all their flaws and imperfections, all that filth they try to pretend isn’t inside them. Bright, white-toothed, fake smiles paired with big, boisterous or silly, little laughs masking insecurities and a lack of self-confidence. Money splashed on clothes and cars camouflaging massive credit card debt and even bigger home mortgages that will be laid at their family’s doors when they die. Poor relatives who will have to cover funeral costs, and then a bigger surprise comes, there’s no money but there is a fuck-ton of bills to be paid, and the bank is going to come knocking. ‘We’re so sorry for your loss.’ Condolences all round. And now there’s the matter of outstanding payments to be made. So not only have you lost a loved one, but that prick left you one hell of a mess to clean up, and guess what, you’re not going to get one little cent for your trouble, hell you’re going to have to hand over some of your own savings.

Then there’s those a-holes that will never have enough, business is business, and money is money, and it doesn’t matter who they take it from. Banks. Don’t even get me started with all the collateral you need to get a loan which is the only way to get anything these days. Homes, small businesses, cars, private schools, university studies. They give, and they eventually take it all away again. Interest rates, inflation, market values, shares, stocks, you can keep all that shit. Stupid buggers get hooked and will never be free. You live in debt. You die in debt. Fuck that shit.

I was never going to excel in a world where most people have no values, where ethics and principles are worthless, where the truth is a matter of perspective and trust is non-existent. People are trashing themselves, those around them, and the world they live in. They’ve taken something beautiful and twisted it, polluted it, fucked it all up, and I will not be a part of it. So, I’ll sit in this house, or in this little garden, smoke my weed and let the world around me go up in smoke and be blown away in the breeze. Just like this sweet-smelling vapour that sails up from my lungs, warming me, calming me, gently rocking me into a temporary oblivion. And then I’ll do it again, every God-damned day, slowly fading away until my own oblivion is complete.

Covid was good for me, and for others, it did bring out the green in many of their fingers. With restless, seemingly endless time spent at home, they entered their gardens with not just the mandatory mow and trim, clip and prune in mind. No, now they had time, loads of unoccupied leisure time to make use of in this space. Stores often closed so you’re forced to buy online, and the bloody tomatoes arrive banged and bruised from underpaid, overworked delivery van drivers. Spinach wilted from long hours waiting for pick-ups out of storage, and then into the backs of those busy, bustling vans. Lettuce still crisp-ish, but the edges dark and slimy. Cucumbers and carrots sold out before you can click in your order. ‘To the garden then! We’ll have our own bio veggies in no time!’ And what a way to de-stress after a long day in your recently refitted, refurnished home-office/dining room-come-living room. Long hours with headphones crushing ears, parents and kids all house-bound, chair-bound, stuck to screens and speakers, unable to get out from under each other. Sanity requires some solo space, so ‘let’s go to the garden and plants seeds, and water seeds and watch them grow, so slowly, grow, please for the love of all things, grow!’

Catch up you amateurs, I’ve been growing green for years now, and yes, I agree, it’s therapeutic as hell. I think about that beauty of mine out there in the garden, with its’ long, slender, serrated leaves. Tons of tiny, little leaflets so thin and finger-like, spreading out to catch the sun. This gorgeoous bush has grown fast and dense, like bamboo, and just about peaks over our wall to spy on our neighbours.

‘Where did this come from?‘ my mother enquired one day‚ ‘It‘s grown so quickly. Wally! Come and look at this plant. What is it? When did you plant it?‘

He came strolling outside, beer can in hand and looked at the bush. He then looked at me sitting quietly on the grass by the pool. I smile innocently and he drawls on, ‘Oh yeah, I remember this. Yes, it’s really grown, wow. It’s a kind of bamboo I found a while back, a tiny thing then. I wanted to see if it would grow, block the wall just there.’

‘Well, it is pretty. And I’ve always liked the look of bamboo. These leaves are so lovely, look at the detail. Do you think it’ll survive the winter here?’ she’d asked.

‘Sure, they’re hardy. But if it gets too big, it’s probably better to just pull it out.’ He said, while locking eyes with me. I smile and wink back at him. It’s a good thing he’s on his third or fourth beer and enjoys playing little tricks on my mother. ‘It’ll stay. For now.’ Wink, wink.

‘No, don’t take it out if it gets too big.’ She reacts. ‘I like it. It’s so lush and green. If it grows too quickly, we can just trim it’.

‘Great idea Mom. I’ll even help you with that trimming.’ I offer. My dad smiles and shrugs at me, then tilts his head way back to get out the last drop of his beer and strolls back inside to check on dinner and grab another can from the fridge. He likes his beer cold and his curries hot. Simple man, simple pleasures.

That was the only gardening my father ever let me do, trim the ‘bamboo’ bush. It became our code, a way to protect my mother, I guess. Keep her blissfully unaware. Keep her happy. And she was, sitting on the patio with her glass of white and her thin cigarettes. A little smile on her face and she sipped and got tipsy. Sometimes slowly, at other times steadily. Father and son gardening together, the only thing that trumps that is the two of us in the kitchen, my dad cooking and me pretending to help. As if! Wally does not need, want, nor take help or assistance of any kind, thank you! Neither of us would be able to do it right anyway, not according to him. We know it. He knows it. But still the pretence goes on. My father pretends that our green bush isn’t weed. I pretend to help him in the garden. My mother pretends not to notice how much my father drinks. She pretends that she doesn’t drink just as much and that she can quit smoking whenever she wants. We pretend the cancer hasn’t left a dent in her, not the first time, nor this time. We all pretend it won’t come back. I pretend that I’m ok.

The whole family used to laugh along, and play pretend with us. Until they couldn’t. By now it’s been years since they’ve locked eyes on me, the last time being a happy family get-together where admittedly, I was looking a bit rough, and I was a bit quiet. Until I wasn’t. I got very loud when I lost my temper and snapped at my mother in full view of our family, stomping off before I could get a proper look at their politely surprised faces. For shame, for shame, I tell you. My parents are ill-equipped at handling uncomfortable situations, and I am a ‘little shit’, thanks Mom, who embarrasses them. The more sociable and helpful members of the clan used to pitch up to help, and share unsolicited advice, and for that most heinous crime, they have been barred entry by sentinel Mummikins, and her faithful guard dog Wally, who barks in warning in background. The rents have really shown that they are able to locate their backbones, not in my presence, but I am impressed with the passion of their performances - ‘We really are ok.’ ‘I’m feeling much stronger after the last stint in hospital. Thank you so much for collecting me and bringing me back home.’ ‘Graham? No, he’s not in (this is a personal favourite of mine, ‘not in’, LMAO!!) out with his friends’ (more please, this is killing me, I haven’t seen those fuckwits in for-ever). On and on until clan members are forced to give up and say their farewells. And I hear their cars start up and reverse to leave. Job well done, rents. Now where the hell is my vodka and Kat, Dad? It’s time to settle in for the night. Grab yourself a beer Wally. Mom, have you got your glass of wine topped up? Great. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a happy, little, dysfunctional, co-dependent, enabling family.

I have a glass of vodka, no ice as I don’t take my drinks diluted, and a bag of chips. I’ve never really developed what you would call a healthy appetite for nutritious food. Mom does not cook, preferring to flit around the kitchen and chat to anyone around and play DJ. She is the hostess with the most-ess, making sure those invited to wine and dine have copious amounts of both. She will eat little, birdy bits of anything that dad cooks, and he does cook rather well actually, curry not the only culinary delight he is able to whip up in the kitchen. On our turns hosting the family darts evening, he’d cook up a storm, stews, curries and hearty soups, slow-roasted beef and crunchy potatoes with steamed veggies on the side in Winter. Summers meant barbequed lambchops, chicken drumsticks, steaks and sausages, freshly baked bread rolls and simple but crisp, colourful salads. Fortunately for me, maybe unfortunately, before going on retirement, he worked at a chocolate and sweet factory and my mother at a big food and household goods production company, so there was always plenty of candy’s, chocolates, Coke, chips and any other type of sweet, junky food you can think of, all conveniently stored and unsupervised in a big cabinet in our kitchen. As a child I lived on a blissful sugar-high, with no chores or mandatory homework, or set bedtime or real supervision. As such I had a LOT of energy, too much for parents who preferred the company of adults, and so had friends and family over very often, and they stayed LATE, so I stayed UP LATE too. I wouldn’t’ve been able to fall asleep anyway, you’ve got to let sugar super-charge you and speedily cruise its’ way through your system. You must rush right along with it, and I rushed. I ran. I roared. All day long, all night long. Lazy, hungover Sunday mornings, and brunches and then just as I was feeling free from that crazy hold all that glucose had on me, it was mad panic as all my homework and projects and studying that had piled up had to be done and the clock was ticking. Teachers can be nosey people poking themselves into your family matters if they see a reason. Kids falling asleep in class. Kids behaving badly in class. Kids inattentive in class. They handle all of that and wonder what is going on at home. Homework undone. Projects late. Tests failed. They eyeball those parents whenever they see them. ‘We’re onto you.’

I hated it all. Couldn’t keep up. Didn’t want to. And so, my mother took it upon herself to do my homework for me. She got to experience the wonder of education in public schools in SA.

It wasn’t all bad though. I loved cricket and did quite well on our school team. I was proud of my performance, of ours as a team, and relished the time spent there as our coach pushed us to be better, to hit harder, to run faster. He really believed that within each skinny, knobbed-kneed boy was a cricket champion, we just had to dig deep to find him. And we did, we wanted to make him proud, I wanted to feel proud of myself. Practice in the afternoon and then a short walk home. I’d let myself in, grab snacks from the cupboard, munch and feel good about feeling so tired. Homework and studying for tests tired me out in a less enjoyable way, I did not feel good about my marks, but I did not have a teacher rooting for me, helping me to see that there was an ace student in me. And I noticed two very distinct versions of myself emerging. Happy, sporty kid on the cricket pitch. Withdrawn, moody kid in the classroom. I bounced between the two, never able to pick the right persona at the right moment. Couldn’t sit still and quiet for long enough to get through schoolwork, sped around our house, our garden without purpose.

My cousins were great at helping me to use up all the energy I had. All older than me, all into sports, so when we spent time together, I could show off my cricket skills, allowing my father to feel proud, and burn off all the sugar cruising through my system. Those family braais, all the uncles and cousins playing cricket in the garden, swimming in a pool if we were at our place or Aunty Satan’s. Huge open spaces, with the highest swing and the coolest, at night the creepiest, playground at my cousin Dennis’s. On Guy Fawkes their place was the best place to be. We’d spend all day playing cricket, two teams of mixed adults and kids, lunch, more cricket and catchers and hide’n’seek, dinner and roasting marshmallows. Happy kids with toothy grins and sticky fingers. Then came the build-up of excitement as the sun started it’s slow decent, the stars shyly peaking out and then twinkling, and the uncles would set up the fireworks display. They all chipped in. All brought different kinds of fireworks to combine into one epic show of bright, blazing, colourful, booming, lights. Whizzing up into that dark sky, bursting bright, blasts echoing off into the distance. We lay on the grass watching, we got up and ran around with sparklers lighting up the dark as we raced around that huge expanse. Those were the days. The absolute best days. Days that felt like they’d last forever. Days that are lost to me forever.

I don’t know why I allow myself to think back, fuck, it hurts so much. To know that I had been a happy child in those days. I see all their faces, all those cousins of mine. I don’t know what most of them really look like now. I could try to picture older versions of them, greying hair, lined faces. But I can still see the kids they were. I’m not sure I want to see their faces now. I’d see them and be reminded of all the time that has gone by, be reminded of all the days without seeing them. Too much time has gone by, too much has happened. Divorces, illnesses, deaths. All leaving in different ways, some choosing to leave, some leaving without a choice.

Two faces haunt me. My Granny Page and my cousin Greg. One forced to leave. One choosing to leave. Both dead. Both gone. Both forcing me to think about how I want to go. I’m slowly poisoning myself, my own body, so I guess I’m like them both. Slowly dying and killing myself.

My home has become my whole world. I am struggling within its’ confines, but I am also struggling to move out of this space. When you have segregated yourself, sequestered yourself in a small place with very clearly defined borders, you are intensely aware of your proximity to those barriers and of others who are trying to breech them. I can almost sense when others approach and like a street cat defending its territory my ears prick up and I am on full alert. I smell you. I feel you there, and I do not like it. If need be, I will yowl and hiss. I’m prepared to scratch your eyes out.