I’ve always loved a good story. We come from a long line of tale-tellers. My grandfather, uncles, and brother shared glorious narratives that transported you away from reality and are sometimes even sprinkled with a touch of truth. My mom and sister knitted bedtime fables together in the league of J.R.R. Tolkien, filled with fairies, gnomes, and castles. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to places, businesses, and people who can offer me my needed fix: a good story.
I am happy to drive a few extra kilometres to my butcher. I’ve known him for decades. I like that I know a bit of his background: the partners with whom he fought, the limp he suddenly developed after a messy divorce, an interesting tattoo he got after a New Year’s party, his broad Scottish accent and despite his grumpy exterior, the fact that he always employs people with special needs. I’d rather support the Lebanese restaurant owned by the Arabian man with pale blue eyes than a faceless international chain establishment. I like his story – how he had to flee the country he loved, but can replicate it here, and nothing gives him more joy than seeing people enjoy his hometown cuisine. (He also charges you for “cooldrink” when you have wine). Over the weekend, I took my family to eat at a restaurant where my dad used to take us. Same owners, same menu, probably same grubby carpets, but I remember the stories. I am reminded of what dining out used to be: an occasion and celebration, only to indulge in once in a while. I love Woolies as much as the next person, but I prefer to go and buy my clothes from a woman I know who has a shop at home. She had a breast cancer journey. She makes me buy things I’d never choose off a retailer’s rack, only for it to become a favourite. My plumber is a fabulous, tall man with a deep laugh who studies theology part-time. Our aircon guy is named after Hitler, and is what one would call “totally emotionally neutral” – nothing upsets him, and nothing makes him happy either. We get our eggs from a woman whose child almost died after a bike crash, and now has a trachea, but still lives a wild, brave life. My computer guy got stuck in the 80’s when it comes to fashion, and so did his boundaries. More women leave him than I can keep count of.
All my favourite suppliers and shops have stories and personalities. I don’t always remember what I bought, but I remember from whom I bought it. I am fiercely loyal to the legends, and not so much drawn by price or product. I keep going back to these human stories because I know them. They are messy and real and strangely appealing. You cannot bottle and sell it, and I think that is part of what people love about us, here at Hospitality. It is not one–size–fits–all. Every person that enters our premises has a story, and we see that first, before we see the diagnosis, the pain, the anxiety or the need. You cannot follow a script when it comes to people, you simply have to treat them instinctively.
Last week, I was showing a potential patient around Zazen. Suddenly, a huge Lexus drove in and a panicky older lady climbed out. She was very unsteady on her feet. I was sure she was a patient looking for a place for herself, but she explained that the ICU specialist told her to come and get some referral forms from us for her husband, who was starting a palliative journey. She was emotional and anxious, and the trip was totally unnecessary because we could have helped her online / on the phone / gone to see her. After giving her the papers, I took her car keys and reversed her car out for her. Leonard (our maintenance magician) got in his own car and drove ahead of her all the way to the hospital to make sure she didn’t get lost.
In that moment, we knew that’s what she needed. Her husband died in the hospital and never got to us. On the income statement, we made a loss. We wasted petrol, resources, time and emotional energy, but maybe she just needed to be reminded that there is still some kindness in this cruel world.
On the same day, our carer Sarah wrote a birthday card verbatim from the lips of a Mr Green who, without a doubt, will not survive this month. It was his daughter’s birthday. I got her yellow tulips and a gift at his request, and as she entered her dad’s room, we sang to her and Mr Green could give her a last birthday gift. It reminded her of how much he loves her, and it reminded him that he is a dad and a man with a legacy, not just a patient slipping away.
Early on Sunday morning, we had a situation after a cholecystectomy wound emergency and needed our wound care specialist to come out. I knew it was her daughter’s farewell and that her family should come first, but I phoned her anyway… and she came to help, obviously.
Someone else donated beautiful scarves to Zazen. Dr Jodi knew we had a patient at Recovery rather partial to accessories, so we made sure she got to choose first. Mrs Naidoo has bad insomnia, so our carer Nobubhle lights her a fire each night and sits with her into the early hours of the morning so that she is not alone. When we had 17 men from the Nigerian armed forces, Busi would go to Hillbrow each day, buy weird and wonderful vegetables and meats and watch YouTube recipes so we could make jollof rice and things I suspected were tripe to make them feel at home. Our patients from overseas are often lonely, so during lunchtime, one of our carers will walk to the park with them.
Each day is its own story here, and in a city that often prefers speed over soul, I love this slow burn of real, intimate relationships and connection. It is not something we can click on and add to a cart. Whether it is yellow tulips, a strange tattoo on a butcher or a lonely patient from St Helena, your story really matters here. Maybe, in the end, that’s the only thing that ever really does.