There are times that I am convinced that it must be easier to do other work somewhere else… on another planet, or perhaps in another universe.
Last week, we had such difficult staff challenges that I almost lost the will to live. The staff issues are weighing heavily on me, and somehow, it all felt cumulative this week – like all other challenges I’ve had to wade through in the past are making this harder. Being a leader here in the hybrid space of Africa-meets-the-west, tradition-meets-the-modern-world and culture-versus-custom is hard to navigate. And so, because I’m still too raw to chat about our problems last week, I will tell you an old story from 2012. Sometimes, revisiting the past reminds me that this is not my first rodeo, and we’ll get through our current disappointment.
Long ago, Maria worked for me as a cleaner and assisted in the kitchen. She was soft spoken and shy, and despite not being the fastest and quickest on the job, she got the work done. She gave the type of hug that wrapped all your weariness away, and I loved her with a tenderness usually reserved for old friends.
In Africa, if you are a woman and black, and you are my age, you’ve been hurt. No one survived the 70’s and 80’s without picking up a few war wounds, either from politics, the patriarchal system, poverty, religion, society, culture, family expectations or a combination thereof. Maria was no different. She had only a few years of schooling in a rural village before her education was cut short – a story familiar to many women here. The end of Apartheid changed the textbooks, but not the reality of many people’s lives.
By the time Maria got to me, she had three children, two from the man she called her husband, and another from a man who generally had no input whatsoever in the child’s life. She pretty much knew that her life was mapped out before her, and it was not that different from stories of the women in her family who had gone before her. She simply did not have the energy to dream big dreams and was grateful for the job she had. To be honest, she did the bare minimum to stay out of trouble at work. She arrived just in time and cleaned the rooms just well enough not to land a disciplinary hearing, but she was also not on her way to becoming a manager. You get the idea.
Years passed, and she worked for me for over a decade. On a busy Monday morning, Maria did not come to work, but later sent me a “Please call me.” When we spoke, she explained that the taxi she was in rolled and that she was at the hospital, but would be back the next day. The next day came and she looked physically fine, but not quite herself. There were no bruises or broken bones, but it was as if all the life had been sucked out of her. During teatime, I asked her to come for a chat and heard how the taxi driver lost control when the tyre burst and how it rolled into oncoming traffic. It was awful. I would have been shaken too, but I know working class South Africans, and they are tough. They travel in these death traps we call taxies all the time, and an accident, however horrendous, usually doesn’t shake people up like this. We see it far too often, and sadly, are not afforded the luxury of getting traumatised. Maria assured me she didn’t get hurt, but upon questioning her further she told me that they couldn’t take X-rays because she was pregnant. And then she sobbed and sobbed.
Being pregnant again was not good news. Her husband had a job as a driver, but it did not pay much. Their kids were finally old enough and a bit more independent, and they were just getting on their feet. They had recently got a little house and with two steady, albeit small incomes, there was hope. Having another mouth to feed was not a good idea. She was devastated.
I knew better than to suggest a termination. It is not something that is taken lightly and with all the baggage and superstition that is so entrenched in our people, it was not worth discussing. I told her we would love her through this. And we did. We arranged the biggest bestest baby shower for her, she was spoiled and left with nappies and bottles and clothing. The baby shower was pastel blue, navy blue, turquoise blue, sky blue and of course, baby blue because we were all told Maria was having a boy.
When the baby arrived however, Lungelo was absolutely not a boy, but the most gorgeous baby ever.
She was the colour of milk chocolate and round and soft like her mom. I went to meet her at the hospital, but four months later when Maria came back to work things were not going well. Maria’s precious baby girl was ill and she blamed herself because she believed this was punishment for not wanting Lungelo enough. Maria took many days off going from one clinic to the next. No one could explain why Lungelo was not flourishing. We arranged to take her to our own GP and a very serious heart problem was discovered. Our GP wrote a beautiful and detailed letter, and instructed my gentle Maria to go and find a cardiologist somewhere in a government hospital. My hopes evaporated and I berated myself for even starting on this journey.
Maria took the then 7-month-old Lungelo to the biggest and the best state hospital in Joburg. I know with the NHS in the UK that there are some delays and that other first world countries have some hiccups, but if you want to talk slow and difficult, then Africa is top of the podium. It took days of administration, then days of tests, then days of X-rays and eventually, despite the pleading letter from our doctor, Maria was handed, like a medal of honour, an appointment letter with the cardiologist, in two years’ time. I phoned and fought and even showed up, but that was it. The problem was identified and in two years’ time, the cardiologist would reassess. My heart broke for little Lungelo’s heart, which was literally broken. We knew she would not live for two years without the surgery.
As people with medical aid, we are not used to being without hope. (People are seldom completely without hope if they have money, connections and infrastructure). We usually have a plan. Maria was completely disempowered. She had no tools to battle this.
At work, Maria started moving slower and slower. She was often late or did not come to work at all. Lungelo was not well and was quickly deteriorating. I did what all mothers would do. I decided to see who could help us. Off I went to the then well–functioning Walter Sisulu Paediatric Cardiac Facility at Sunninghill Netcare. I was full of bravado and of course, armed with a tray full of brownies to smooth my way past the receptionist.
I had lady luck on my side (and, luckily, a marketing specialist who needed a new good news story to boost interest in the facility). An amazing professor agreed to see us, and not in a month or a week’s time, but on the same day! (Yes, the marketing specialist wanted her miracle quickly and hoped I would provide it). I had no idea how I was going to get Lungelo to the Prof within a few hours, but I knew we had to. I rushed to my car and sped away shouting into the phone for Maria to get Lungelo and wait for me to scoop them up. I hardly stopped the car when I got to her street in Alex, and Maria piled her ample body into the car, stretching the seatbelt over herself and Lungelo (there was no time for a baby seat). I hauled arse on the N3 highway back to the hospital and in an impressive two turns, managed to throw my car into a parking bay and Maria, Lungelo and I sprinted to the professor’s consulting rooms.
A new world opened to us. We were greeted as if we were paying patients. Prof spoke with utter respect and kindness to Maria and handled little Lungelo with tenderness. After impressive tests, in stark contrast to what Lungelo underwent at the state hospital, we got back to our professor. He explained that an open heart surgery was necessary, AND that he would do it. Not only would he do it, he would do it free of charge!!! The hospital also came to the party and all we agreed to was that Lungelo would have to be photographed as a multi-national company was going to sponsor the cost of the hospital stay. Everything fell into place (and of course, the marketing specialist got her wish granted as there was not a cuter baby around whose life needed saving).
I will spare you the hours heading up to the surgery, the waiting in the halls whilst Lungelo was under the knife and the many visits to the CTICU (cardio thoracic icu) afterwards, but what I want to tell you is that it was a success. Her heart was absolutely one hundred percent fixed.
What was a bigger success for me by far, was the dignity this family gained through the experience. For the first time in their lives they were seen by an unbelievably well–educated and professional doctor who was not rushed off his feet and exhausted beyond repair. They got medicine and treatment without standing in long queues. They were consulted with regard to the procedures and treatment rather than being instructed. Professionals spoke to them as equals, in beautifully clean rooms, and offered them coffee. Maria was seen by her peers as someone of value, someone whose child is worthy of the best treatment. Maria’s baby was saved and her entire family was validated. Seeing Maria being treated as someone of worth, and seeing Lungelo’s life being valued was what will always stay with me. Life in Africa does not make sense, but in the CTICU, it felt to me like balance was restored.
As a bonus, I impressed myself because I did not know I could park my car in such a sexy 007 way and don’t often have the opportunity to employ these hidden skills.
I wish I could say that this was the end of the story, or that the story ended with Lungelo being healthy and happy, and that Maria, after being so valued, went back to school, finished matric and started a successful online venture. But that’s not what happened. Maria carried on working as a cleaner for a few months, and when December came round, she wanted to go on leave. As she had already taken many months’ paid leave while Lungelo was in hospital, leave was denied.
Maria waited until 16 December when I paid all my staff their salaries and gave them a bonus. Then she left and never came back. No goodbye or explanation. I never heard from Maria again. I do not know if Lungelo is well or knows that someone that she’ll probably never meet took a chance on her and got her little heart fixed?
I think of Maria and Lungelo often. I don’t know how their story unfolded in the end, and I probably never will. I was deeply hurt by Maria’s absconding, but what I do know is that for a brief moment, dignity and hope intersected with their lives. That experience taught me that leadership here is rarely about fixing every problem or holding onto every person. It’s about showing up, creating moments of grace, and trusting that even when stories don’t end the way we wish, the love we gave was not wasted. Perhaps that is enough.