Departure

I stand in the middle of the room and look.

This place has been my home for the last year and in 4 hours I have stripped it of me, and packed myself into a suitcase and 3 cardboard boxes.

A last minute check in the bathroom – site of many untaken baths (for much of this month turning the tap produces a blast of air, silence and a stony absence of water. The borehole has run dry). Nothing.

The cupboards – oops. My Drakensberg mountain maps and compass.

The bedroom – site of many sleepless disturbed nights (“Doctor please hold for maternity”) – empty and ready for the next doctor.

I walk slowly out of the flat, locking the door behind me. I drop the key with Magnus next door. His new adopted daughter, abandoned on the paediatric ward 8 months ago is clinging to his neck. We embrace, awkwardly as blokes do, particularly given the mechanics of avoiding a small child.

I was not very effective at work today – my heart was not in it. Feeling a little wistful, little sad. My ward rounds mostly consisted of prolonged good-byes with the nurses and long explanations of why I had to leave. We all said nice things about each other and I kept saying, yes I might come back to work in South Africa one day but no, in all honesty it probably wouldn’t be Hlabisa.

“But what if we found you a wife doctor?”

“Well Sister, you have had all year but sadly you couldn’t find one.”

“Hauw doctor. I know, I am sorry.”

Londeka and Nomfundo in Outpatients

I head to my overloaded car and with a last glance at the residences head to the gate. I open the back of the car for the guard. He studies the piles of boxes, shoes and cases. Could their be a firearm in there? Could I have hidden an ultrasound machine?

He shrugs. “You are leaving, doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to sell your car?”

I laugh. He is the 14th person to have asked. “I have a buyer.” I climb back in. “Sala kahle.”

“Hambe kahle!”

And I pull out of the gate.