21 March

The weather was exactly the same as it was today. It was 10 years ago. Not very cold. Not very hot. It kept threatening to rain. Then by 11am it started raining. A blinding torrent that just went on and on for a few hours. I was cold. I could not get out of bed. Just like I couldn't today. My feet felt like lead. My head felt like someone else's log. Thankfully it was South Africa's human rights day. So I could sleep all day if I wanted. Hunger pangs finally pushed me out of bed though.
As we ate brunch, my aunt Phiso, my brother Derek and I, the phone rang. A loud piercing ring, as if it needed to ring louder that day. Nobody stood to pick it up. We were all too scared to pick it up. We all knew what that call was announcing. I looked at the clock on the wall, as my aunt rose to get the call. It was already after 12 noon. I could still catch the evening flight to Harare, then my brother Bruce would drive us to Bulawayo. I stood up, and walked past my crying aunt who wanted to hand me the phone. I went into the kitchen, washed my hands, wiped them nicely and even rubbed some nice lotion as if I was getting ready to go on a date.
My aunt kept holding out the phone. I took it from her. My mum was on the phone, wailing so badly she didn't need to say anything. I don't think she ever said anything. I don't remember if she did. I calmly said, "It's ok mum. We knew this day was coming. What can we do? We did what we could. That is how life is. I will try to get on a plane tonight. I will see you later ok? Don't cry now. I am coming".
As if I was the one who would come and wake my brother Happiness up from the dead, and make my mother happy again. Make us all happy. Like the short-cut for his name. Happy, we called my second elder brother.

It was a good name, Happy. For that was how he always was. Our parents were very optimistic. They had given us all very similar....happy....names. Gloria. Jabulani (which means be happy or rejoice), Happiness, Gladys...Everjoice....They must have been on a high for many decades. A high which vanished as the decade from 1990 wore on, losing their children, one after the other. Still it was a lovely touch. We all had names that must have made them very happy, positive, and glad to have us. That was as life should be. Bright and full of promise, possibilities. Happiness.

I don't remember what Happy was like as a child because we didn't grow up together. He was living with (my cousin in English), Bruce's mum and dad. Bruce and I lived in the village with our grandparents and my mum.
The few occassions that I saw him at Christmas, Easter, or some family gathering, I just remember that he was always laughing, a loud racuous laugh that always reverbarated throughout the house, or vlei, or wherever we were.
I knew him more when he became an adult.
He still had the booming laugh. Made louder by drinking. He could laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Much to my grandmother's annoyance. She didn't think it appropriate for anyone to laugh like that. At every function, or holiday Happy would get thoroughly sozzled. And laugh. And laugh. Then he would fall asleep in the middle of an argument or conversation. Snore very loudly. Completely lights out.
Then suddenly he would wake up, as if he had been with us all along and ask, "saka mati toita sei?" (So what are we going to do?). We would all laugh, and laugh.
In 1993 he fell dead asleep in the middle of an argument about how to conduct our eldest sister Gloria's funeral. We argued and debated. Happy continued to snore. Strangely he continued to perch very comfortably on an upturned crate of coca-cola.
No rocking, no falling face down into the fire. No. Just snored in a perfectly upright position.Then calm as an April afternoon, he opened his eyes. Yawned loudly. Stretched himself and announced, "yes, definitely we just go to Doves Morgan tomorrow morning, have the service at the chapel there and bury her soon after. I don't think anyone disagrees with that, do they?" He stood up, dusted off his Pierre Cardin pants and strolled off in search of a beer.

Ah the designer clothes! That was another of Happy's trademarks. Any day of the week. Anywhere he was, my brother loved GOOOD clothes. We almost killed each other over who would inherit his beautiful shirts, trousers, shoes, jackets. I went to see him in Mater Dei hospital in February, before he died. As soon as he saw me he asked if I had a car. He told (told, not asked), me to go to his house and fetch half a dozen items of clothing. Each by its designer name. The man was not about to lie about in striped hospital jammies.
During the December holidays, he came home for Christmas. His last. Everyone of my mum's neighbours and church members who came to visit would come in, as they normally do, nicely and meekly. Looking very sad and sympathetic. They would shake everyone's hand and sit down. Then they would ask, looking around in wonder, "ko vakadii vagwere?" (How is the one who is unwell?). Their eyes darting around the whole family, wondering which one of us could possibly be ill. Happy would be sitting up, in his most beautiful clothes (and socks!)! So they could not imagine that this designer clad man was in any way ill. He would laugh and put them out of their discomfort, "hee hee, it's me! Ah, you saw the nice and clean clothes and wondered eh? Ah I am very sick. Very sick".

Happy passed away on the 21st of March, 2000. He was only 40. On a day just like this. South Africa's Human rights Day. How ironic. Or apt. Depending on how you see it. My brother like many of his generation, died of AIDS related complications. This was the year 2000. Access to treatment was not as easy as it has now become in Zimbabwe and in many parts of the world. The cheapest triple therapy at that time was close to R2 000 a month. A small fortune for any of us by any standards, nobody in the extended family could afford to sustain this expense for however long. We tried all options, it just looked and sounded grim. The public health system could not provide anything other than cotrimoxazole. Happy's medical aid could only pay for hospital stay, (private no less), and the same cotri, but not sustained triple therapy. We simply watched our brother die. The right to health-care a distant dream, a wish.

By the year 2000 my family had become experts at this watching and burying business. We even got on first name terms with the undertakers. Between 1993 and 2000 we had buried at least 8 members of the extended family. You would think that made the subsequent deaths easier, understandable. But nothing ever does. Each time it is different. Harder than the last time. Much more painful. That is why my legs felt like lead this morning. That is why the blog never got finished on the same day. So you are getting it on the 22nd.

Am glad I waited though. Because there is something to celebrate as well, and so besides remembering my brother on this day, I will remember that this is the day the (modest), healthcare reforms were passed in the United States!
I feel like a kindred soul to the American people, (the ones denied the right to health care that is, not the other lot!). Access to decent, affordable, nay, FREE healthcare, is a right billions of people do not have. In this sub-region, this has been made stark by the HIV & AIDS epidemic. The simple fact that millions of people died because they could not afford life saving drugs is a tragedy of mega proportions. Young, energetic, people, the future of our families and generations. It sounds so tiring saying it over and over again. In the United States, the seeming land of plenty, millions do not have access to health care. Most of them are poor black people. What I find unfathomable is how others, with money, privileges and access to healthcare which they take for granted, do not think that the right to health care is a universal one. They think it is theirs only because, they are the ones who "who work hard and deserve it" (their words). Like the rest of humanity doesn't? Modest as the changes in America today are, it is something to celebrate, and not take for granted.

In Zimbabwe and many other countries in the SADC region, access to free, or very cheap anti-retroviral therapy is now much much better than it was 10 years ago. It is now common to hear people on public transport in Gweru say, "Ah ari right sterek, ari pa-chirongwa"...(she is ok, she is now on the program! Meaning, anti retroviral program).The changes have not just come about though. Civil society movements, women and men living with HIV fought for the right to free anti-retrovirals. I am glad I have been on that front-line. In my own small way.

If only my brothers and sister had had accesss to treatment. If only our government/s hadn't waited so long. If only. My brother would be teaching my teenage son a thing or two about high fashion today.

RIP vaMawarire. May the angels enjoy those dazzling clothes and that great laugh.