on>
“A gripping read of Letshego’s terrifying flight down Kilimanjaro to save her Gugs. What follows is the immense personal journey she undertakes – emotionally, mentally, spiritually – to find herself and regain her courage in the face of such loss. Harrowing and life-affirming all at once. A life guide to how you can overcome anything and flourish.” – Danielle Weakley, editor Women’s Health
“Letshego’s journey of heartbreak, tragedy and finding light and life is an inspiration. There are lessons for us all in I Choose to Live – how to pick up the pieces after a tragedy, and celebrate life.” – Aki Anastasiou, broadcaster, columnist
“When Letshego asked me to read the manuscript, I dreaded the thought. I put it away for a week. Then an idea crossed my mind that maybe this is the book to read not to open wounds but to find healing, to be reminded of life, loss, love and everything between. Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down! Thank you for sharing this journey with us, which has helped me heal from losing Gugs and many other losses life threw my way.” – Sello Hatang, CEO of the Nelson Mandela Foundation
“As much as this book is about the tragic death of one of South Africa’s most loved sportsmen, it is mostly about life. Honest, inspiring and, at times, gut-wrenching, Letshego’s journey from losing her much-loved husband on a mountain, to conquering it on her own in his honour, is a lesson to all of us. Gugs would have been so proud!” – Mike Finch, editor Runner’s World and Bicycling magazine
“Letshego expertly proves that out of tragedy can come some of life’s most useful lessons.” – Innocent Dutiro, CEO: Adcorp
I Choose to Live
Life After Losing Gugu
Letshego Zulu
I dedicate this book to Gugulethu Mathebula Zulu, the Fastest Brother in Africa, my loving husband and a doting dad to Lelethu. I lost you at the height of your motorsport career and shortly after you became a dad, but I take comfort that you will always be remembered. You left an indelible mark in many people’s lives and for that I know that you will never be forgotten. Heaven gained a star in you. Keep shining.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
That fateful night
My footsteps thud as they hit the ground. I’m trying to pace my breathing; slow, quick breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. The terrain zips past me, obscured by the shadowy darkness as we make our descent of Kilimanjaro from Kibo Hut. Gugs is lying unconscious on a single-wheel bicycle stretcher carried by four guides. I look down to check my watch – only 15 minutes since we left Kibo. Suddenly my foot strikes a rock and I’m flung forward, unable to stop myself. I tuck in and somehow manage a soft landing on the rough gravel path. Luckily, I’m wearing my summit-night gear, which is well padded. Richard, the founder of Imbumba Foundation, stops and gives me a hand. As he hoists me up, he reaches for my shoulders and removes my backpack. He wears it on his chest and, now carrying two backpacks, instructs me to continue running. I quickly dust myself off but, as I look up, I realise that the team carrying Gugs a short distance ahead has also stopped. Panicked, I rush up to ask what’s wrong. The leading guide, Frank, says, “The drip’s not flowing.” My first thought is that there’s a blockage, but the problem is I don’t know how to fix it. In the dark, with the help of my head torch, I peer through the drip window and I realise it’s filled with the liquid. I don’t know anything about drips! Desperate for a miracle, I stare into the four faces. Nothing. “It looks blocked,” I blurt out. “What should we do?” The guide who’s been trying to hold up the drip while running, responds: “Well, if it’s not working, then I think I should stop carrying it. I’ll put it next to him so I can run properly.” No one responds so he does exactly that, securing the drip neatly between Gugs and the stretcher.
Frank and I exchange a worried glance. He places a hand on Gugs’s neck to check his pulse. He looks back up at me. I read concern on his face so, shakily, I place two fingers just below Gugs’s chin. Nothing. Terrified, I pull my hand away almost immediately. I decide to check his wrist pulse and, as my fingers search for a beat, I’m hit with an Aha! moment. “Fitbit!” I find myself shouting. Gugs has two different Fitbit heart-rate monitors, one on each wrist. I had given one to him for his birthday two months earlier and the other he received as a gift from the Fitbit team two weeks ago, before we set off on our adventure. I click the one on his left wrist – it gives me a heart-rate reading of 185bpm.
“Jeez!” I scream.
My husband is clearly in deep trouble … My only consolation is that his heart is still beating. I show Frank how to check the heart rate and he nods. Our brief rest period has come to an end. We have roughly 28 kilometres to cover before we get to the bottom of the mountain, to an ambulance, which I pray will be waiting for us at KINAPA headquarters, the main gate to the Marangu Route.
Before we start off again I realise that the guides have only one headlamp between them to steer them through the pitch-black night. Without hesitation, Richard hands his headlamp to one of them. This leaves the two of us running behind, with only the dim light from the one on my head.
As we start the descent, my brain is in solution mode: I am heading up Project Save Gugu Zulu. We are going to get him help; everything’s going to be okay. We’ve been running for about an hour and now my phone beeps as it catches network. Cellphone coverage is almost non-existent on the mountain, so when your phone beeps, you stop in your tracks and check your messages. But this time I immediately dial my mom’s number. She answers almost straight away and, without any greeting, my words tumble out: “Gomie, Gugs is not well. We’re taking him down the mountain right now. Please tell his parents.” I almost burst into tears as the reality of the situation finally hits me. Richard indicates that I need to hang up – we have to keep going.
Now we’re running again to catch up with the guides and Gugs ahead. Soon we’re right behind them, the only sound the thud of our footsteps as we continue our descent in the silence of the black Tanzanian night. After what feels like another hour of feet thudding on the gravel path, the guides stop to catch their breath. Weighing in at a solid 95 kilograms, Gugs is not the lightest of guys. Richard and I stop a few metres behind. I ask Frank to check his heart rate again. “172!” shouts Frank. It’s a small consolation that he seems to be improving even though we’re still at pretty high altitude. I know enough about heart rates to understand, though, that his stats are equivalent to someone running a marathon, so it’s clear my husband is far from well. Our break soon ends and we’re on our way again.
After nine kilometres on the run, we eventually reach Horombo Hut. My mind flashes to Gugs, so happy here just the day before. He kept saying: “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! We’re above the clouds!” Right now there is nothing scenic about this dark and desperate place.
We arrive to a deathly still camp. It’s clear that everyone is fast asleep. The guides park Gugs on the stretcher in front of the reception window where we all signed in just two days ago. Richard and the guides dash off to find help, leaving me alone with Gugs. I’m too afraid to say anything to him, so I sit quietly on the bench by his side. I have never experienced such quiet. Finally, one of the guides returns. He tells me Richard and Frank are waking the other guides who need to continue the journey down with us. I ask about the ones who came down with us from Kibo Hut and he tells me they need to return to Kibo in case there is another emergency. It makes complete sense, but I can’t help worrying about the time we’re losing in getting Gugs down to safety. After what feels like forever, Richard and Frank emerge with a new group of guides. Frank has decided to continue with us until we reach the hospital about 19 kilometres away. I whisper, “Thank you.”
As we hit the road again, there are now seven of us.
Left, right, left, right, left, right. I switch my focus to my footsteps to avoid thinking of the desperation of the situation. The new team of guides has fresh legs and are thankfully moving at a rapid pace. Momentarily, I lose