My brother died the same day Mandela died

My brother died. He died on the same day as former president and international icon Nelson Mandela. They both died on December 5 2013. My brother was 65 while Mandela was 95.

It was Mandela who lived a long and blessed life despite having spent 27 years of his life in jail. It is a miracle for a black man to live to the age of 95.

My mother, who died at the age of 84 in 2008, had wished for my brother to die first, before she did. She felt that life would be merciless and difficult for him. It would have been a good thing if that happened. But he only died five years later after my mother.

When my mother was alive, she used to imagine and talk a lot about how life would be like when she was no longer alive and my brother was alone. The world she knew was hard and cruel to orphans and people with disabilities. She felt that there would be nobody to look after her oldest son.

When mother died in 2008, some of us knew that it marked a turning point in our lives, especially for our brother who was, largely, looked after by our mother. And when she died, my brother knew that something was bound to give in, to change in the quality of his life. Thus when she died, he did not know what to do or think. He just resigned himself to life.

My brother has been disabled for a long time, 27 years to be exact — the same number of years that Mandela spent in prison. The brutal and violent assault that left him half paralyzed took place on a Sunday afternoon in 1986. To me, he died then.

I saw him lying half-dead in the street. He was lying there, weak, vulnerable and helpless as four thugs kicked him around and stomped on his body. He was alone against four armed thugs. And they kicked him because they claimed he had swindled them of some money. They were well-known thieves and robbers that were diamond dealers. And my brother worked for a jewellery shop in Johannesburg city. They dragged him out of the house and threatened everybody. They kicked him to death.

He was just lying there. No words came out of his mouth and no tears rolled down his cheeks. Something seemed to have happened to his body. It seemed to have given in but his soul was still resilient and strong. They bundled him into the boot of the car and drove away with him. Later, we learned that they had dumped him in the forgotten fields next to the Diepkloof hostel, leaving him for death. But he was later rescued by a stranger who took him to Baragwanath hospital. He spent four months in the hospital, fighting for his life, defying death.

My brother was not killed in 1986 but his life has been dead since then. I used to see him at home. He would lie in his bed or just wake up to watch TV. He was recovering but half his side on the left, the arm and leg were dead, paralysed. His head was strong and his speech very clear. He could talk and express an opinion now and then. He had come to stay with us because my mother wanted to take care of his son. She did not believe that there was anyone in the world, not even my brother’s wife or eight children, who would look after him with the tender love and care that only a mother can give.

When my mother was no longer around he was forced to return to his family. When I visited I would find him sitting in the lounge watching TV. He loved the Nigerian movies on the African Movie Channel. The room was small and squashed but he could watch the television and enjoy the company of visitors or a meal. He loved to eat cakes, like he was a little child.

I would bring food for us to cook and eat and just catch up on development in life. But he seemed to be losing his mind and looked really thin. His skin seemed glued to his bones. I would look at his frail condition and pretend that I did not see the signs of neglect. He would see me and ask after our mother. I could see that he was beginning to lose it. But he died when he was brutally attacked in 1986.

My mother wanted my brother to die before her. She was afraid that if he lived longer, he would be living in death. The economic injustice and lack of social solidarity is strangling the soul of this nation. Perhaps she was right. There are many people in South Africa who are living in death, especially women, children and people with disabilities. I believe that much as we want to build a caring and proud society, it will take a very long time because of the broken moral fibre and the fact that people have become heartless and uncaring. It is everyone for himself, now, and South Africa for us all. Not everyone is like Mandela, driven by passionate convictions to change the unchanging world.

Something in me died, a piece of me died when I heard that my brother had, finally, died. He had suffered and wallowed in miserable pain for 27 years. Yes, he could eat, speak and breathe, very much alive so to speak but he was in pain. I could see it in his eyes. When I received a call that he had died, I sighed with relief. He was now at peace, hopefully, reunited with his mother who lived for him and loved him unconditionally. Death is the true liberator. We are born to suffer.

When I went to visit his home, to pay my respect and help make preparation for the burial, there was no hive of activity in the yard or street. It was all quite. My brother died on the same day as Mandela but there will be neither a memorial service nor big state funeral for him.

I went back home to think and reflect about him. But all that was on the TV was portrayals of the great Mandela. I thought of the two dying on the same day. Perhaps they would enter the pearly gates at the same time but even God would have to receive Mandela first. There is no one like Mandela. My brother understood that when he was alive. But now he is dead. My brother died. And he will be buried a day before Mandela.

May his soul — and that of the great Nelson Mandela — rest in peace!