Have you ever reached a point, while still relatively young, when you realised that your life might be coming to an end? It is a chilling realisation and, without doubt, a soul-searching experience.
Among other things, you wonder whether your life has been worth living. Have you left a positive or negative legacy? You also wonder how your children, if you have any, will manage in this harsh world without your fatherly guidance. These are among the many questions that, as I have painfully come to know, occupy your mind when you believe death is near.
Naturally, not many survive such an ordeal. But a few do and live to recount their experiences. As fate would have it, I am one of them.
One afternoon during the coronavirus pandemic, I was in good spirits, having a light drink with friends in my home village of Chalowe, in Njombe Region. Afterwards, I walked leisurely to my nearby five-acre farm, which I had inherited from my father, to see how it was progressing.
My farm manager, Rehema Mbonde, took me around. The maize and sunflower crops were doing well. Impressed, I sat down in the shade of some trees and enjoyed my ulanzi, a local bamboo wine.
An hour later, I set off on the half-hour walk back to my village house. I was not to make it there unaided.
Five minutes into the walk, my body suddenly gave way. I fell onto my back, with darkening clouds overhead. I tried to stand, but the strength I needed was simply not there.
Mbonde reached out and pulled me up. She even scolded me, suggesting that perhaps I had drunk too much ulanzi. But that was not the case. A few minutes later, I was on my back again, without the strength to lift my now seemingly massive body.
From that moment, I felt like mere matter occupying space, with none of the energy that had always carried me through life. With Mbonde’s help, it took me three hours to reach my home. By then, I was hallucinating.
That was when I realised, with dread, that I might be approaching the final phase of my life. It dawned on me that I might have joined the many people who were dying of COVID-19.
I had already lost scores of classmates, college friends, workmates, relatives, friends and neighbours to that terrible disease. I feared I would soon follow them.
At the time, the Government had decided not to allow certain medicines from abroad into the country. I was mortified, to say the least. But when death seems imminent, the will to survive takes over. If I was going to die, I resolved, I would do so in a hospital, under the care of medical professionals.
The following morning, I marshalled what little strength I had left and staggered into my old car. It took me three hours to drive the 50 kilometres to Ikelu, a Catholic-run hospital a few kilometres from Makambako, along the Njombe road.
I arrived and parked, but could not get out of the car. Hospital attendants came with a wheelchair and took me inside.
I met a young doctor, Dr Jaffar, who immediately ordered medical tests. When the laboratory assistant handed me the results, he said, “Pole, Mzee! Haya ndiyo maisha na mwisho wake” “I’m sorry, Mzee. This is life and how it ends.”
Dr Jaffar read the results and solemnly informed me that I had COVID-19.
“What are my chances of survival?” I asked.
“Almost zero,” he told me. Through the window, he showed me bodies being wheeled towards the mortuary. I feared I would soon join them.
He then said the hospital had received a batch of medicines from Italy the previous day. He asked whether I would be willing to be the first patient there to receive the treatment. As if I had a choice.
I agreed. Eighteen hours later, I slowly drove my old car back to my home in Chalowe. I had lived to tell this story.
I dedicate this article to the millions who tragically lost their lives to COVID-19. May God bless them all.
