as if the bottom had fallen out of my world; I had lost my rock in an unstable home, the one person who adored me. I felt vulnerable without the protective cloak he had draped around me.
Girls cried hysterically at his funeral; under different circumstances I probably would’ve found this public display quite funny. And all sorts of people visited our home for some time afterwards to pay their respects. There was even one young man who came to tell us what good friends he’d been with Abbie, and how his incarceration in the local prison had prevented him from attending the funeral.
I sometimes wonder what would have become of Abbie had he lived. At the rate he was going my guess is he’d either be in prison or in rehab. Or maybe he’d be fabulously wealthy, living the life of an international playboy.
Abbie’s death was the first in a macabre chain of deaths in my extended family. Within four years, three of my mother’s siblings all lost their sons, and another lost her husband. When my father died in April 1989, I started to wonder whether we were cursed. There were some whisperings about witchcraft, but my mother immediately dismissed those suggestions. She’d been brought up in a deeply religious home, and for her this was all God’s will. I struggled to understand God’s ways.
After Abbie died I retreated inside myself. I buried myself in books; they became my sanctuary away from the drunken dysfunction inside our house. I lost myself in solving mysteries with Nancy Drew or sharing teenage gossip in the corridors of Sweet Valley High. By then my mother was working as an administrator for an adult education organisation and she would bring home some books from the African Writers Series. I revelled in the tales told by Bessie Head, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and Chinua Achebe. So many times I’d be lost in a story only to be snapped back to the present by my father in the throes of a rant. I’d panic, worried that I’d missed something that I should have been paying attention to.
I became hyper vigilant; I was always on the look-out for situations that could trigger an outburst from him. In my child’s mind I assumed that my father’s outbursts had something to do with my actions or omissions, and I was always second-guessing myself and working to prevent yet another one. I didn’t yet understand the complexities of a tortured mind.
As with Abbie, I was alone when I found my father. It was the last day of school before the Easter holidays, and I’d gone to the Wimpy in town with some friends to celebrate. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon when I got home, and I crept in quietly, grateful when I thought he was asleep on the couch. It was only some time later, when I saw the odd way that his body was slumped, that I knew he was gone. He’d had an epileptic fit – a consequence of suffering a head injury some years earlier – which caused his airway to be obstructed. I waited with his lifeless body until my mother got back from work. It was only years later that I was able to forgive myself for not being heartbroken over my father’s death.
The last of the deaths, a teenage cousin of mine, was in 1990, and by then we’d all had enough. My uncle cried out at the funeral, begging God to stop taking the men in our family. “Go lekane [It’s enough]!” he shouted, raising his arms up in exasperation. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the church, and thankfully God heard our plea.
I was in my final year of school at this time, and I was desperate to leave Johannesburg and find my own way in the world. The year had been a memorable one, and I remember one day particularly clearly. It was 2 February 1990, and I was in my matric year at Sacred Heart College. For me, the day itself had a particularly tender quality, for it was on that day that my brother had died tragically four years before. As with every second day of February since that fateful Sunday afternoon in 1986, I had woken up acutely aware of its significance, and I was filled with memories of times gone by and musings about what might have been. My mother and I had sat over breakfast talking about Abbie, wondering where he’d be had he lived, and laughing over some of his more outrageous antics. As we sat reminiscing, I had no idea that another event, later that day, would further mark the date prominently in my mind.
There was excitement at school throughout the morning. That evening was our annual prize-giving ceremony and for the matric class, it would also be the occasion when the student body leadership positions would be announced and honours blazers awarded. Chatter was widespread throughout the morning as we speculated about who would be chosen, and the excitement continued into the lunch break. When we stood at assembly after lunch, however, we were stunned into silence when the school principal broke some startling news. “It was announced in parliament this morning that the liberation movements are to be unbanned and that all political prisoners will be released,” he said.
We stood in silence for a few seconds before we turned to each other to confirm what we had just been told. I saw uncertainty on some faces; on the faces on my black classmates, sheer joy. And then we broke into song, singing “Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika”, and for the first time the hymn had a ring of promise. For me, 2 February took on an almost magical quality. It was capped off that evening when I received my honours blazer and was named one of the leaders of the Student Representative Council.
In 1990 my future as a young black South African looked very different to what my parents had known. In the 30 minutes it had taken FW de Klerk to make his historic speech, the prospects that were suddenly available to my classmates and me were blown wide open. We were all on the threshold of a future not previously possible in South Africa. Though we didn’t realise it then, the announcement, along with our private school education, opened the way for many of us to occupy leadership positions in business, the arts, academia and public service. For me the future shone brightly with the promise of a successful medical career.
I hoped that I would make a fresh start in Cape Town, away from the claustrophobia and dysfunction of my childhood. If my mother was nervous about me leaving home, she didn’t show it. I’d grown up quickly after Abbie’s death, had learned to take care of myself. My mother was away often; she spent long hours at the office, at conferences and workshops. I made my own decisions and I was responsible; I’d never given her reason to be concerned. She gave me her blessing and as I packed my suitcases I shut away the pain and loss, resolving to overcome my past and to create a new future for myself. Little did I realise the enormity of the challenge that lay ahead.
3 | The Diligent Student
I graduated from the University of Cape Town (UCT) in 1999, one of the nearly 200 students who made it through the six years of rigorous study. At our valedictory ceremony one of our professors remarked that only 75 per cent of us would still be practising medicine in ten years’ time. I was taken aback, baffled that anyone would go through all that training and then not use it. I didn’t yet know that there was a big difference between studying medicine and being a doctor.
I loved studying. When I first arrived at UCT in 1991 I enrolled for a Bachelor of Science degree. I’d been accepted to study medicine at Wits University in Johannesburg, but I was fixed on moving to Cape Town and starting over, even if it meant taking the long road to my goal. On the first day of lectures the head of the science faculty gave a speech that I imagine was his standard warning to all new students at the beginning of each year. “Many of you are here because you are hoping this will get you into medicine. I’ll say it now – forget it!” he said.
He couldn’t have known that his attempt at tempering our expectations was just the kind of challenge I thrived on. I studied hard, my eye constantly on the ultimate prize – a place at the acclaimed UCT Medical School. I was fortunate to be awarded a full bursary by the British Council during my first degree; it helped to ease the financial burden on my mother. I sailed through to my graduation in 1993.
My education wasn’t only confined to the lecture halls, though. I partied as much as I studied; on most weekend evenings you’d find me deep in the middle of a dance circle at a residence party or nightclub. But I never allowed my social life to derail my mission. Come Monday morning I’d be back in the lecture hall, diligently pursuing my dream.
When I was accepted into medical school after completing my BSc I was elated. At last all the hard work had paid off; I was on my way to becoming a doctor. I threw myself into my studies, starting with the three pre-clinical years that formed the foundation phase of our training. Here we were