The Worst Pain.

Monday. An hour after sharing lunch with co- workers, Tawana has a sudden pain in the upper part of his abdomen. It causes him to bend over double at his waist and fall to the ground. The pain radiates to the back of his abdomen, in front of his backbone, and settles there, a burning piece of red hot coal. He lies in a foetal position on the ground, writhing and whimpering.

“Tawana! Tawana what is it? What is it?” His wide eyed co-workers say.

“Le mpolayelang bafowethu. Le mpolayelang?” Why are you killing me my brothers. Why are you killing me?”Tawana cries.

His co-workers stand around him with gaping mouths, not knowing what to do what to do, until one of them snaps out of his trance and rushes to the First Aid Station to call an ambulance and gets a stretcher.

Tawana is taken to hospital and receives treatment, drip and suction they call it, for two weeks before being discharged. The doctors tell him he has had an acute attack of inflammation of the pancreas because of the alcohol he had taken the weekend before.

“But I only had a beer or two over the weekend. I did not touch any hard stuff.” Tawana protests.

“Whether it is beer, cider or spirits, stay away from them. They are dangerous. You have survived this present attack. Next time you may not be so lucky. Next time you are going to bleed into your pancreas until it bursts and fills your abdomen with blood and you die. We are not just scaring you. It is certain to happen just like night follows day. Be warned”. The doctors say.

“Sjoe! The pain was terrible. Real terrible. More terrible than the pains you had when you were giving birth to Boy-Boy. I am definitely not going to drink anymore”. Tawana says to his wife, Mamikie, when he gets home.”

“I am happy to hear you say that, my husband. But I disagree with you about the pain. There is no pain greater than that of childbirth. What do you know about childbirth? Have you ever given birth to a child, wena Tawana hê, tell me?”

" Hei wena mosadi, it is you who knows nothing. That pain I had! It makes a grown man cry like a baby. I am telling you. I am no longer going to drink. Strue’s god. My ma hoor my. ”

“Whatever. As long as you have learned you lesson.” Mamikie says. “And another thing, those people you work with, you know how they are. They come from that village near Rustenburg which is known for its witchcraft. They won’t think twice about slipping poison into your food while you are not aware, so that they can put their relatives in your job once they have killed you. Unemployment is rife. E iphile matla. . Don’t eat with them."

Now if there is anything good about pain, whether it is emotional or physical, it is the fact that you can’t remember it. That is why corporal punishment is not much of a deterrent to wrongdoers. They are back to their wrongdoing very soon.

And that is what happens to Tawana.

Two months later he is back drinking heavily again.

The following Monday, after lunch, the pain strikes again. By the time he is on his way to hospital, his abdomen has begun to swell. By midnight it is like that of a pregnant woman about to give birth. He remembers his wife’s words about labour pains. There is no pain worse than labour pains. He should also have listened to her warning about sharing food at work with others.

“I should have listened to my wife. Ijoo, ijoo.” He cries.

When his relatives come to visit him the next day, they say it is not his co-workers; it is the very same wife whose words he thinks he should have heeded, who is killing him.

Sejeso they say. It is sejeso she is using.

The doctors try to tell him it was Acute Haemorrhagic Pancreatitis, not sejeso, but Tawana says no, it is not; and after all, what do the doctors know about sejeso? They know nothing.

“Yah, you know nothing”. His relatives say to the doctors. “Give us our child. We will take him to a traditional healer, ko mothong, who knows these things”.

They take him home and the following morning transport him in the back of a canopied van to a traditional healer they have heard of in Limpopo province, four hundred kilometres away.

He dies on the way, half an hour after they have left home.