Dear ‘€˜Kosi

It has now happened, what we all knew would, must. You are seemingly dead. Your frail body is not moving. You don’€™t recognise us anymore.

We must confess. We are somewhat at a loss. Is it over? Shall we make our peace’€¦release you to the Gods, even plead with them to take you? Or shall we scream to blue heavens that you should be saved and spared once more, albeit temporarily, so you can fill, ameliorate our lives a little longer?

Somehow you are lingering. What is it in you, brave little one, that makes you so strong? You spoke so much to others about the illness that has ravaged your body. You have, single handedly and radically, revolutionised the environment around Aids. You are indeed a true activist. Speaking out, screaming louder than anyone – that people with Aids deserve to be loved.

And we loved you. For the brave little figure you cut on world stages, with that shy smile, as you demanded dignity for all the millions walking the same road as you. For the impact you made on others.

Remember the man selling newspapers at the Waterfront who shared with you that his sister had died of Aids and his mom was infected? And the many others who are dying too. Or those who love someone dying and others who are trying to overcome the fear of the disease that destroyed your body?

But we love you more than anything else for who you were in those private, silent moments, out of the limelight. The way you bravely endured the pain and suffering this disease brought you. For your pride as you covered your eyes shyly when we put your nappy on at night. Your positive spirit in the morning when you announced: “I didn’€™t have an accident. I’€™m sure I’€™m getting better, today is going to be a great day,” and your silent control as you offered to help clean up when you did have an accident.

We love you for silently taking the medication we kept giving in desperation to save you. For your tolerance with people who demanded your time and energy when we took you Christmas shopping or to the beach. For unselfishly pretending to enjoy dinners with us when the thrush in your mouth and throat made swallowing impossible. For thanking us for things when it was really you giving and we receiving. For letting us hold you when your body was sore and sensitive after vomiting and the holding benefited us more than you. And for forgiving us our silence when we were too shocked at the naked savageness of your unceasing suffering to say anything.

It is so typical of you, lingering for a while despite the complete tiredness and detachment you must feel, in order to give us time to deal with your leaving us.

There are so many, many reasons why we love you. For telling those shockingly weak jokes. For sharing your Sony playstation with Siya, agreeing to be his “brother”, and pretending he was winning the game when he was stone last. For being excited about sharing our mundane daily routine as if it was special. For singing Mustang Sally, Vulindlela or I Believe I Can Fly at the drop of a hat, despite the fact that you were mostly completely off key.

We cherish the beautiful memories you left with my family. The day in Cape Point when we carried you across the secluded beach to the water. The way you laughed when your thin bare feet touched the water. Throwing your head back and laughing. “Amazing”, you said, “amazing”. You were so beautiful.

The evening at Carols by Candlelight in Kirstenbosch just before Christmas. We laughed because all six of us scored a ride in the golfcart up the steep slopes because the lady recognised you and realised we were all too overweight and unfit to carry you all the way up. You sang each and every Christmas carol. And in the end when everyone waved their candles and sang Silent Night, we picked you up on our shoulders and despite all that life had done to you, despite you having to argue and fight for dignity and despite the fact that you had to plead for love that should have been your right, you still looked at this world and its people and declared: “Its beautiful, amazing”.. You loved when it would have been appropriate and understandable to hate.

‘€˜Kos, when the time comes and it is finally over for you, your friends in Cape Town will light a candle for you and share our grief in missing you. We may even cook some prawns. And then it will be over and we might not say your name every day.

But we promise, we will hear you every time your song plays. We will smell you in the herbs of our garden. We will see you in the blue of the sea. We will set a place for you at every birthday Siyabonga has and we will remember you for the love you had for all, the beauty and excitement you saw in everyday things. You did not only deserve love, you commanded it. You did not deserve dignity, you ordained it. You were love, in its purest form.

Nkosi, Siyabonga