Mr. Ntambo died this morning. It doesn’t shock me too much, but I am upset and frustrated. Frustrated because he died only because he didn’t have any medical attention. My thoughts are a jumble now – I keep seeing him saluting me dutifully in the morning and saying “Thank you, sir” with a smile showing from ear to ear. I will miss him. It’s ironic that I found out the news of his passing as I was watering his garden. I could feel my heart sink. He was a very giving man. I will remember him fondly.
Postscript 2010: I do indeed still remember him fondly. He was a tireless worker, always busying himself with something to do. A few days before he died, while he was working, he actually sat down on a chair in the house; it was the first time I’d ever seen him sit (he would crouch in the garden to eat). Eva and I told him to go home. We didn’t hear from him the next day, but had news from his family that he was not doing well. His daughter visited me Saturday morning, asking if there was anything I could do to help. He had been suffering from diarrhea. I offered her some Immodium in my ignorance.
His death marked me because he was such a kind and gentle soul, but also troubled me because it was such a needless death. I’m sure my own feeling of guilt because I didn’t do enough to help him also contributed to my inability to accept what happened. He most probably died from drinking unsafe water, but then again, in Africa, sometimes you never know. All these years later, access to potable water around the world is a privilege for so many, and well beyond the reach of 700 million people worldwide. Access to water is a human right I rarely address in my current human rights work, but when I do, the memory of that dear man always resurfaces.
