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Dear Shaheen,

Twenty-five years ago today, you died.  You were involved in a car accident and now you’re probably a box of bones in that overgrown cemetery.  I wonder if your headstone has been cleaned, the grass around your grave cut.  The truth is, I still remember the smell of the hot earth around your grave.  It was distinctively orange and dusty.  

I have started to think about you more over the last year my brother; about what it would be like if you were still here - how much my girls would love you, Uncle Shaheen.  I think about what you’d be doing, how you would have made it as an actor and be starring in those good British drama’s I often tell Lisa we should watch more of.  I think about how you’d be living in London and how fortnightly on a Saturday you’d make the trip down to the coast to sit by the sea and just be with us.

I think about how much time you’d spend with my girls and how Isla would proudly tell her friends that her uncle was famous.  I think about you picking Isabelle up and putting her on your shoulders to be lookout on a long walk as she shouts, “Uncle Shaff!”

Shaheen, I think about how proud you’d be of me when you’d say, “makorokoto!” and dance around me.  I think about you coming into the home we’ve built and having a go on the trampoline, even though you’d be over 50.

I think about your family.  About how you’d bring your kids over and all the kids would be running round playing while we have a braai and talk about the old days, and the future - what show you’re going to be in next, how Dixon used to say “seventy”.  I think about us laughing into the night over dinner and a beer.

And then, as the years go by I think about you moving down to the coast with your family, London is too fast paced for you now.  And sitting by the sea when our kids are grown.  Having a beer at the local pub and talking about life.  I think about you buying a house in the posh part of Seaford (where people pronounce it “SeaFORD”) and us being close to one another, and us seeing one another and talking and laughing and exchanging advice for years.

I think about you coming to Isla’s wedding.  And Isabelle’s.  And watching them raise families of their own with me.  

I think about you falling ill when you’re an old man.  The doctors say the only thing they can do is make you comfortable.  But that’s ok - you’ve lived a full life, you’ve spent time with the people you love and who love you.  Enough time. 

Enough time.

I think about you dying.  Dying at a ripe old age.  And Isla is there, and Isabelle and Lisa.  Your family are there, your kids, your wife, your friends, everyone you love and who loves you.  It’s ok, you’ve spent enough time with us, you’ve lived a full life.

And then Shaheen, I think about you dying at 26 in that mangled wreck.  And I think about Isla, Isabelle and Lisa never having the chance to meet you.  And I smile.  Because you packed so much into those 26 years that you may as well have moved down to the coast, carried Isabelle on your shoulders and died at a ripe old age.

I love you, my brother.

An Overdue Letter

19 February 2009

Dear Shaheen

Ten years ago today you died. You were involved in a tragic car accident. You probably don't remember much of it or, at least, the bits you do remember were warped and not in any way how we’d have remembered it. The thoughts I had and emotions I felt on that day were systematically pushed down into the pit of my stomach – something I’ve put down to being a defense mechanism. I didn’t know how to process these (albeit new) emotions because, as you know, you were always more emotionally free than I was. You more obviously took after mum in that respect. The very least of my worries at the point of the accident was the fact that I’d never get the two Mars bar ice creams you willingly agreed to purchase for me after I’d absolutely thrashed you on the makeshift basketball court we had next to the garage. I still think you showed an unnecessary idiotic pride when, after I had beaten you the first time, you defiantly proclaimed, “another game? Double or nothing!” You should have realized that I had played some of the best basketballers I had known on that court (Dixon, Sarwar, Brian, and that guy who would obnoxiously turn up at our house whose name I can’t even remember).

Still, when you were lying on the ground next to the brand new and soon to be written-off Mazda 323, contorted, the thought of my two Mars bar icecreams which I would now never receive did occur to me. Perhaps this bears testament to the fact that I knew, very deep down, that you would never recover from your injuries. I knew that I would never be able to wrestle you again, that I would never be able to ask your advice on girls or annoy you to the point where you’d absolutely have to take me with you to Repteens. And when I saw dad sat on the ground, holding you in his hands and reassuring you between the sobs I knew that life as we all knew it would never ever be the same. He rode with you in the ambulance that night, but before he got in he threw the car keys into my hand, looked at me and said, “Isham, go home and get your mother. Bring her to the hospital.” It was at that point when I realized that the whole world was falling apart around me and that I had to hold it up. The keys were perhaps symbolic of a sword passed to an unlikely hero charged with protecting those around him. I had no time to think about my new role and whether I liked it or not. I had to do what I had to do. I drove home.

When I pulled up in the driveway mum came running out, sobbing in much the same way dad was. I hugged her, but she was having none of it. She promptly entered the vehicle, having forgotten everything she used to say about the dangers of me driving unlicensed. The journey to the hospital was a blur; I can’t remember it at all. But when we arrived I was untimely sucked back to reality. Dad was sitting in the waiting room; it was summer but was surprisingly cold in there. The sickening blue-green seat coverings were only matched by hospital-coloured walls. And then there was the sound. The unmistakable intermittent bleep of an ECG machine. Your heart rate seemed rhythmic and I focused on that for a little while before my concentration was broken by dad’s voice, “Isham!” he said, “fill out the medical aid form.” He pushed a clipboard into my hands, thrust a pen at me and then gave me the number; the number I will always remember – 2856395 – our medical aid number. 2856395, suffix 03 for you. That night you were only a number to the hospital staff – 03; the day I was born. I began filling out the form but my concentration was yet again broken when the ECG tone changed to a long constant bleep. You had died.

They managed to resuscitate you and more power to them for that, but the constant bleep (which had now reverted back to short, sharp bleeps) had only acted to confirm my fears that you would no longer physically be my brother. Nuyen, who was a medical student at that point tried to reassure us all. Apparently your condition wasn’t too serious; your brain had just been shaken by the impact and had hit against the inside of your skull, causing the unconsciousness and the contortedness.

That night I went home - Troy kicked the dustbin outside the hospital as we exited and shouted something. He was always angry back then (as you know), but has calmed down a lot now. I’ll tell you about that later though. For some reason I slept on the floor in mum and dad’s bedroom. I don’t know why as they were still at the hospital with you and there was a big double bed free next to me (an opportunity I would have leapt at any other time). I couldn’t sleep and this was in no way linked to the hard, cold floor. I must have still been in shock because the full weight of the situation hadn’t hit me yet. I just kept wondering who your things would go to, and how we would split it all. Now I know what you’re thinking – these were, indeed, quite morbid thoughts. It seemed like I was already signing your death sentence even though there was a decent chance you’d survive. Again, though, I knew.

It’s funny, about two months before the accident a guy at school was telling us how his sister died. Apparently she was having a routine operation and they didn’t give her enough oxygen. This experience had driven him to become an atheist. Since then I had been thinking about your death; about how everyone would react, about who would get your things, about how it would all turn out.

I can’t remember how I woke up the next morning, but I’m certain it was in a cold sweat. I can’t even remember how I got to the hospital that morning but I do remember being there on the second floor – the ICU unit. Sitting on those cold, hard chairs with mum, dad and Nuyen I couldn’t help but wonder what you and everyone else was thinking. I knew what I was thinking - nothing. I was numb. But the nothingness was filled with an unbridled joy when I looked up and saw Dixon coming up the stairs in his school uniform. Dixon, with his outward and obscure walk and the highly amusing way he said seventy, walked towards me. I stood up, still unsure of why he was there and (perhaps more importantly) how he had gotten out of school.

“Hi,” I said, automatically in a low drone, “why are you here?” I realize now that my line of questioning may have been a bit rude but I don’t think Dixon minded; I think he understood. He put his hand on my shoulder and I automatically assumed a wrestling stance (that’s how you’d start a wrestle). “Gavin came to get me. Shaheen’s been in an accident. Isham’s in shock, he told me.” Dixon was always a good friend. In fact we worked out once, being the maths geeks we were and for lack of anything else to do on those hot afternoons, that we had spent over a third of our lives hanging out. I thought that was a nice sentiment. I was selfish back then though; all I could think on that day was whether I could still go to the Rogers’ house (a plan we had made before the accident). Like the Mars Bar icecreams and your things, I was still so focused on my own ends.

After some time and a small discussion with Dixon I leaned over to dad and asked him in a sheepish tone whether I could escape to Cyrus and Lucas. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, perhaps understandably. Dad murmured something back to me, I don’t know what but I took it as his acknowledgement. I eventually got my wish to leave your side. I went to see my friends. They proved themselves that day, and took me in with open arms. The next ten days can only be described firstly as a blur and secondly as a living hell. We got into a routine of going to the hospital, sitting with you, going back home and sleeping. I don’t remember eating, discussing anything or watching TV. I can’t remember in what order things happened during that time. At one point the doctor came out and told us that you had a clot in your brain and that it was impossible to operate on it without you being conscious. He’d said that he would administer drugs to try and dissolve it but that the effectiveness of this treatment wasn’t guaranteed. He was a brain surgeon, trained in Belgium. For some reason that fact gave us more hope – a doctor trained in Europe, the epitome of technology and forwardness, had to trump ten doctors trained in Africa. Our hope was heightened at times and crushed later. You began to move your fingers one time; grasping dad’s hand – this made us all happy. However, the doctor promptly put this down to involuntary muscle spasms – something that happened subconsciously. The cards and wishes of hope flooded in from all areas – testament to your outgoing and sparkling personality. By the fourth or fifth day the waiting room on the second floor was buzzing; a stark contrast to its condition on day one. I took solace in the fact that your friends (and mine) were there to support you; even though I still wondered why they were all alive and well while you were stuck in a broken body; unable to let any of your former light shine out.

Then there was the Craig issue. Now, I believe that this was completely unnecessary. On the night of the accident Craig (who you were with) vehemently denied that he was driving the car. Your injuries suggested otherwise. I don’t need to go into detail here, needless to say that I was sore about this. Craig was your best friend; why would he lie in this way? I had wondered this for years after your death. Still, he was there at the hospital, and I now know that that’s all that mattered. He’s a good man. We got a second opinion on your clot; and it confirmed the first opinion – they were unable to operate while you were unconscious. Gavin started a diary dedicated to accounting the whole ordeal. Things were getting better by day seven; you had begun to breathe mostly on your own, even though the respirator was still taking forty percent of the credit. Gavin noted this in his diary – 60% own breathing, 40% respirator. We were all filled with a renewed hope; maybe you’d make it out of this. And, given the stubborn wrestler you were, I began to believe this too. My resignation to your death was rescinded slightly. Mum and dad, too, were smiling again after a long bout of frowning.

Then one night and, as far as nights go, this was the worst, we received a phone call from the hospital. It was late, must have been about 1:30 AM. You had relapsed and had reverted back to one hundred percent respirator assistance. Mum and dad rushed to the hospital. I stayed at home but I’ve heard recounts of that night. Dad sat next to you and shouted; in appeal to God. He wanted God to take you there and then and end the pain. The next day I went in to your ward; it was different – I knew death was about and feeling mischievous. There was a family around a bed near yours crying – they had lost their daughter. I couldn’t shake the feeling that you were next. I hated that feeling. You were moved into a private room next to your ward and I convinced dad to have a homeopathic medicine woman look at you. I don’t know what I was hoping she would do but I knew we had to try everything. She came to your room the next morning and, with dad and I in the room, she checked the pressure points on your feet and hands. The news she gave us wasn’t good. You were only being kept alive by the respirator. Dad was now faced with a decision no father should ever have to make – whether or not to turn off the machine; whether or not to turn you off.

He decided to pull the plug but was still faced with a lengthy court process to authorize this because, let’s face it, he would essentially be killing you. Killing his own son who was now not so much a human being as a machine. The mood in the house in those final days had dropped. On the final day of your time on earth mum and dad left me at home with Troy and Moe and went to the hospital. Again, I’ve heard accounts of what happened that day. When they arrived they were promptly pulled to one side by a nurse who advised them that your heart rate was dropping – you were dying. They stayed next to you while you died. Gavin, Craig and many of your other friends were there too. They all prayed as your heart rate dropped. You slipped into death almost as calmly as you slipped into life. You died with your closest friends and family by your side. When mum and dad came home to tell me what had happened (after they sent Troy and Moe home) I felt nothing. The ordeal had ended and the outcome was what I had expected but had never wanted. No feeling from me at all. Not because I was cold-hearted, but because I fallen back into shock again. The wrestling had ended, the advice on girls had ceased and I would never see the fruits of my victory over you – my Mars Bar icecreams.

All I wanted to be was alone but I had to put on a brave face for everyone else, and I had to greet oncoming guests clamoring to offer their condolences. The forty days and forty nights of mourning had begun. I never did understand why it was traditional for us to mourn over someone for forty days; and was against it ultimately but what could I do? We needed to bury you as soon as possible but you were stuck in a morgue somewhere. They were required by law to do an autopsy on you, but dad was completely averse to this. We eventually managed to get your body back to the house a few days later. Dad bathed you outside and wrapped you in a white sheet. You were placed on the carpet in the lounge and we all sat around you. Over fifty people were at the house that night but many of them were relegated to waiting in the garage or in other rooms because apparently only Muslims were allowed to sit around you. I didn’t question this, but wanted to so badly.

You looked different dead – your broken jaw had to be propped up by a piece of cloth tied around your head. You didn’t look like you – your soul was clearly gone. We said some prayers and I helped carry you to the car to take you to the cemetery. It was raining that night; raining as if the heavens had opened to receive you. There was lightning too but, surprisingly, this didn’t phase anyone as it usually would have. You know how much we were all scared of lightning – an unreasonable fear but a real one nonetheless. Getting to the cemetery was a novelty for me; I had never been to a cemetery at night. I felt strangely at home there. We prayed a little more under the covered veranda by the graves and then we carried you to yours – your final resting place; the hole in which your body would spend the rest of its life. You were lowered down and I knelt down to grab a handful of mud. I threw it on you, and everyone else followed suit. We then got our shovels and started burying you. Finally, it was done and I took it upon myself to separate from the crowd and go off on my own. I wasn’t as scared as I thought I’d be, being in a cemetery at night.

Everyone came to our house over the remaining forty days. The Rogers boys – with their their lion-like laughter; they were truly my brothers. Troy, who had forgotten everything he had against me. Moe, who always spoke in riddles and who I loved for it. Dixon, who would never stay over. Chad, who I treated like shit. Auntie Ava,our other mother. Mr. Rogers, with his deep, manly voice. Gavin, Craig, Sheherazade, Rayhaan, Uncle Ish, Auntie Kutch and many more. Even my English teacher from school, Mrs Babbage, came round to offer her thoughts. People who I’d never seen in my life were there; perhaps to comfort us, perhaps for the food. We felt comforted by day but by night, when everyone had gone, we still had to sleep alone and had to deal with the weight of your death in solitude. One night dad came up to me and said something I’ll never forget, “Isham, you’ve been a pillar of strength for us through this.” This confirmed my role in the tragedy, and I knew I had to continue in it zealously.

Eventually all the attention dried up, all the food had rotted in our stomachs and passed through, and we were left with the realization that you were gone and an emptiness which nothing could fill. Your friends planted a cactus tree in the back yard for you – to signify your life and to highlight your love of Mexicans. And then, nothing. We moved on. Dad would occasionally be reminded of the ordeal during an episode of ER – “that’s what happened to Shaheen,” he would say, “involuntary muscle spasms.” Going into your room was too painful; your smell was still pungent in the air and the shoes you were wearing at the time of the accident still had fragments of glass in them. Both of these things soon faded. Mum kept a shoebox of memories – all the cards you had received while in hospital, some of the notes you would write to her when you came home late at night and wanted her to wake you up in the morning – all the things any mother would keep after losing her son. We never forgot about you, Shaheen; we never ever forgot.

Now, ten years later, we still haven’t forgotten. You would be proud of all of us. We’re living in England now – Southampton. Don’t even ask about why we ended up in Southampton; I still ask myself that every day. Mum works for Sainsbury’s and dad works for a security company (don’t call him a security guard though, he hates that). I work for Southampton City Council, as a debt recovery supervisor. It’s not my ideal job but it pays the bills and I know I’ll get to my ideal eventually. I studied Criminology at the University of Cape Town – what a beautiful city. I have a few good friends here, despite the difficulty I have in trusting people and making friends. I don’t have a girlfriend yet, but I’m working on that (don’t worry, I’m still the hard own you knew, albeit to a lesser degree of severity and focus) and, besides, I was in a four year relationship before I came here but that was a mess – I never loved her and wasn’t even attracted to her but I was secure and chose convenience over what was right – something I won’t repeat.

I work with good people and still see mum and dad regularly (the live quite close to me). I’ve grown up, Shaheen, I’ve grown up so much since your death and more particularly within the last two years. Coming to England was a harrowing move. I left everything I knew behind and that, my brother, was a scary thing to do. But I’m a stronger and wiser person now for it. I met a girl who’s now one of my best friends. I was her supervisor in 2007, but we really got to know each other last year. She’s been one of the main influences in my growth. Her name’s Alex and even though she has her flaws (like everyone), she’s a beautiful person. The one thing I wish for everyday is that she sees that. We’ve been through the whole relationship or not phase but we decided against it and now our friendship is extremely strong. We have our differences, which often end up in harrowing arguments, but I think we understand each other.

Her depth, wisdom, selflessness and strength are sometimes even surprising to me – a man who’s already seen and experienced a lot. I’ve seen the goodness and love in her soul and can say with absolute certainty that I absolutely love her. It’s not love in a romantic way, or even in a best friend way; I love her on a spiritual level – I would gladly live two million lifetimes in hell if it meant she lived in heaven for even two seconds and realized the burning capacity for love inside her. I hope she finds the love she deserves. I know she will; she just needs to calm down and find herself; realizing that she is connected to the universe and everyone in it. I have felt like I’m being abandoned by her lately though; like all the new people she’s meeting are replacing my slowly and painfully and it’s killing me. I’ve discovered a cache of abandonment issues within me (Alex says it’s because of your death) – these are something I’m trying to get over, and I’m winning I think, but its tough going. I keep automatically trying to create distance between us – I want her to be free of me and the dependence we’ve built up for one another. I want her to grow. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to cut her out of my life completely. On the contrary, I want her to be a big part of my life – a partner in crime forever; but an independent partner in crime. We’ve learnt a lot from each other; I’ve spoken her about you and she feels as connected to you as I am. We talk about you sometimes; she asks questions and I eagerly answer them. I never pass up an opportunity to talk about you because I’m so proud of you. She says I need to cry for you, because I never did when you died. Maybe I do need to cry, and maybe that will release the anger and fear I hold inside which consumes little pieces of me every day.

Yes, both those things have become a big problem for me. I’m not sure where the anger originates from but I do know that it’s killing my soul, and that it’s linked to fear. When you died I was left with a gaping hole in my chest and that hole was filled with anger. This beast inside me is a ticking time-bomb. I lose my temper unpredictably and I don’t want to. I’ve lived with it for a long time now; building my everyday routine around it, but now I’m sick of it. It needs to leave me and I suspect that letting go of your death will be a big step in the right direction. All I want is to love. But my anger stops me from doing that. You’ll be happy to know that I am getting there – and that’s part of my growth. I recently finished reading a book by an author named Wayne Dyer – a recommendation from dad (actually, it’s dad’s book and I should return it soon!). It took me nearly a year to read it because, as you know, I’m a slow reader (I remember the time you were concerned because you thought I was slightly dyslexic! That was a bit of an awkward moment in the car when you mentioned it in front of Aunty Ed).

The book is called Your Sacred Self and its main focus is on how we let our ego’s control our lives. The author proposes shift in mindset from ego-centric to spirituo-centric (I know, I do tend to just make words up as I go along). He proposes, like many have in the past, that love conquers all. He goes on to say that we are all connected to one another and the universe and that we should love one-another and ourselves, and be non-judgmental. I believe this book has been a turning point in my life and that I’m finally realizing my one and only concern is with helping others as much as possible. It has also made me realize what my ego was creating – a self-centered, neurotic, jealous, untrusting and possessive person. It has given me a drive to focus on the more positive things in my life and has placed me firmly on the path to discovering my true self. My true self, I’ve found, is loving, helpful, selfless and eternal.

I’ve been on a destructive path since your death; blaming everyone for it (even God) while being blinded to the possibility that your death was meant to be; perhaps even a something good in disguise – bringing me closer together with mum and dad, and uniting the masses by common ground. I miss you every day and I often wonder what things would be like if you were still here in person. The night Troy kicked the dustbin he did what we expected him to do. But he had done what I yearn to do because while we all expected him to kick the dustbin, I wanted to kick it so badly. Troy is married now, living in London and has let go of his anger. He has become an inspiration for me to let go of my anger; he has become a pillar of strength for me (even though he probably doesn’t know it yet, and we don’t see each other that often); a citadel for change. But he’s not the only person in my life who inspires me; as I mentioned earlier, Alex inspires me too, and so does Ryan, who’s now making it as a musician in London – he displays a strength any one of us should strive to achieve. I hope good things come his way.

A change is afoot, Shaneen. A shift in my mindset from mourning and blaming to celebrating has started and I’m learning to enjoy the life I’ve been given and be happy. A year ago I wasn’t comfortable sitting in my own skin; I was even less comfortable with my mind. But I’m almost over that now; my confidence is soaring and, even though I ponder on everything under the sun, am of more stable mind. I’m learning that relinquishing control is good, and I’m learning to appreciate the tiny nuances life has to offer (like finding that elusive meatball in a sub you thought was all meat-balled out. Yes, that happened to me today – I was elated!)

I feel driven to change the world. A new fire has stirred within my soul; something that was always there but needed an opportunity to flourish. I want to love everybody. I want to experience the world; letting the tiny explorer inside me out finally. I felt mixed emotions today; I woke up not knowing where I was – my dreams have been more vivid recently. I was almost run over because I was a walking zombie while going to work. I was more reserved than usual; like the old Isham. I felt anger, guilt, fear and sadness all at the same time. But, underlying all of this, was the tiniest glimmer of joy; like a bright light shining into a dark dungeon through a small window giving it’s inhabitants hope. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s pressence is testament to the fact that I don’t regret anything. I don’t regret not telling you I love you, because you already know the depth of my love. I don’t regret not telling you how much I look up to you, because you feel it. I don’t regret that I’ll never be able to talk to you about girls anymore, because I will. I don’t regret being a pillar of strength to those around me during your death. My only regret, and as far as regrets go this is big The one niggling regret eating out the back of my mind; destroying my insides daily. The king of all regrets, ruling over it’s regret court. The one thing I will never get over is that I’ll never get my Mars Bar icecreams but, let’s be honest, I was never going to get them in the first place, was I?

I love you on the deepest level possible, and always will.

Your (still piercingless) brother
Isham