Nobody knew who brought Miss Elizabeth Daisy to the Sunrise Old Age Home. And nobody knew if she had kids, family, relatives, or associates.
Yet Mrs. Olivia Smith was glad Miss Daisy had paid her lodging three months in advance with her credit card. Sister June Buthelezi started working at the old age two days after Miss Daisy moved in over a week ago.

During her initiation, Mrs. Smith had peeped into Miss Daisy’s room. Already, another sister was dispensing medication, and she and Sister June moved on to another room.
It was twilight. Sister June Buthelezi’s ebony face glowed with a thin film of perspiration. Her starched white uniform sparkled under the orange sun rays of September. She gazed at the aged folk, some tottering on the grass, others sitting on wooden benches under the trees.

Tall legs clad in shiny grey stockings, she walked up the cascading lawn. She turned the corner and sauntered towards the main entrance of the old age home. She reported for night duty at 7 am and had arrived much earlier. She strolled to the lockers, put away her handbag, sat at the desk, and registered for duty. With her delicate hands, she stuck her pen into the pocket of her blouse. Sister June strolled down the long hallway and peered into the rooms of the more infirm elderly individuals. She noticed they devoted most of their days lying down in bed, with nothing else better to go on, but wait for the eventual period.

In the next room, she noticed Mr. Eddie Blanco lying in his bed, glaring up at the timber in blankness. He was 67 or thereabouts, but he had aged past his age. The strand of his grey hair framed his aged face, his forehead bearing trenches of regular displeasure and scowling.
“Hello, sweetheart, how are you feeling today,” Sister June beamed a smirk at him.
Mrs. Olivia Smith, a veteran nursing sister, and executive director of the Sunrise Old Age Home accompanied Sister June on the first day of duty. She was impressed by the younger nurse’s unique gifts.

Sister June made her work so easy. She never became impatient with some of the difficult old folk, bar, of course, Mr. Blanco. She was receptive to their maladies. The nurse was raised in a household that emphasised respect for elders regardless of their background, race, or creed. It was therefore not in her habit to speak to the seniors as if they were faded souls long past their living age and refused to die. Mrs Smith was also impressed by June’s possession of a plethora of endearments, ‘sugar, sweetheart, my love, and sweetie. That worked magic when June gave them their daily dose of pain medication.
“Don’t they have another nurse in this darn place beside you?” asked Mr. Blanco with a trace of resentment.
“No, sweetheart”. June’s friendly gaze landed on him. “You’re stuck with me. Don’t you worry, you’ll become used to me”. She strode out as Mr. Blanco turned the other way on the bed to face the wall.
Mr Blanco was a retired colonel of the former South African Defence Force. He was one remnant of South Africa’s evil system of apartheid, used to treat Black people like trash. He could not imagine how a Black maid, ‘pretending to be a nurse’ could order him to take medication, undress him and bathe him. He loathed the idea of being at the mercy of Sister June.
In the other room, Miss Elizabeth Daisy sat with her back against the headboard reading a novel. She peered over her brown-framed reading glasses and placed the book on the bed beside her. Her keen green eyes fixed on Sister June.
“Hello, sugar, are you well?” June moved toward the bed, picked up the glass case, and put it on the chest of drawers next to Miss Daisy’s bed.
“Sure am. Thanks for asking. Actually, what’d you have done if I said I wasn’t well?”

Sister June Buthelezi had worked on a four-year contract at a hospital north of London. Though she enjoyed her stay in the UK, she failed to get used to the bone-crushing cold weather and was delighted to come back home.
She was used to what she told her friends was ‘the English people’ dry humour. The older lady’s accent, she guessed, she was English. June’s lips parted with a smile. “Well, I suppose I’d do everything in my power to make you right”.
“But you’re not a doctor. Just a nurse, right?”
“You’re right. But nurses also have a way of making people feel well and happy again.”
Miss Daisy burst into amused laughter, rocking her emaciated shoulders. She brushed back her grey thin hair with her wrinkled hand. “You’re not long here, what’s your name?”
“Just started. June. June Buthelezi.”
She made out her hand. “Elizabeth Daisy. Are you a relative of Prince Mangosuthu?”
“No”. A peal of pleasant laughter escaped June’s throat. “Pleased to meet you Mrs…”
“No, no, Miss Daisy.” She cut in. Her tone was stern, she did not like to be referred to as ‘Mrs.’ “Well then Sister June, get on with your duties, hope we’ll talk again.”
“Will see you later for your dose of medication, sweetheart.” June moved to the door.
“You sure can honea person’s feel about themselves.” A radiant smile crossed Miss Daisy’s face.
Long after dinner had been served, Sister June moved across the large room, some people had left; a few others remained to chatter. Others wore gloomy faces, their food untouched before them.
A woman with a cleanly shaven head in a wheel sat at the table next to Mr. Blanco. She waved at Sister June; she blew her a kiss, waved back at the woman, and walked on.
“She’s a pretty thing, don’t you agree, hey Blanco?”
“Speak for yourself”. There trace of malice and resentment in his tone.
“Come on Blanco, she’s such a pleasurable person, surely this world would be a better and delightful place with more people like her”. The older lady watched with eyes widened in shock as her companion sprang from his chair and walked away. Blanco did not bother to say goodbye to her.
As she walked past, June saw the lights on in Mrs. Smith’s office; she guessed her boss might have left the light on when she went home. Without knocking, she pushed the door open.

June stopped dead at the door and covered her mouth in shock. “I’m sorry, didn’t know you were in here and thought you must’ve left the lights on.”
“Come on right in June.” Mrs. Smith closed the drawer on her desk, holding a set of keys in her hand. “I’ve come for some documents I forgot to take along when I went home. I’m meeting a funder tomorrow morning and I need them.”
She moved to a steel cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled the top drawer toward her. “How’s the going between you and Mr. Blanco? She turned to look at June, her eyes flickered with curiosity. “Hope things have smoothened”.
June shrugged, and a satisfactory smile plastered her face like it would stay on her forever. “Told him he was stuck with me. He’ll get over it”.
“You told him?” Mrs. Smith’s brow lifted with amazement. “Poor thing, the lot that refuses to accept the change”. She pushed back the drawer, moved back to her desk, and tossed away the keys.
“I met Miss Daisy.”
“I’m sorry June; I forgot to tell you about her. She’s such a stuck-up, too difficult. She’s always complaining about food and everything thing else. She always keeps to herself, I think she’s even pretending to be reading.”
“Oh… no, she’s such a spot, Mrs. Smith, pleasant to talk to her. She’s got this dry English sense of humour I find amusing.”
“June, I can’t find words to even start describing you.” With a yellow folder in her hand, Mrs. Smith moved away from the desk and embraced June. “How you can change obnoxiousness in people and situations into beauty is captivating.”

Mrs. Smith switched off the lights and locked her office, and the two women wished each other a pleasant evening.
That afternoon, after she had had her lunch in the canteen, June moved out of the stiflingly hot room and went outside for a breeze of fresh air. She capped her face to protect her eyes from the bright sun and wandered across the lush green lawn and bright daisies, white, and red roses. Her gaze fell on her.
Miss Daisy sat on a wooden chair next to the pond. Sister June could not why the pool was neglected. It was covered in grass and twigs. Miss Daisy lifted her head from the book she was reading.
“I hope I’m intruding?” said June.
“No. Never you.” She closed the book with a broad smile on her face. “Sit down. I’ve been hoping to have a moment with you so that we’d know each other better.”
“The feeling is mutual Miss Daisy.”
True. Mrs. Smith had told June that she was curious, that Miss Daisy had booked herself into the old age home. She paid for her lodging in advance. She informed June that it was baffling because usually, it was the relatives or children who brought their parents to the facility. However, this was not the case with Miss Daisy.

“Are you married?” There was a trace of resentment in her tone. “Please tell me you’re not,” said Miss Daisy.
June was taken aback by what she believed was Miss Daisy’s anti-marriage sentiment. She shook her head. “Never was”.
She held June on the knee and shook in gentleness. “Good for you, and children?”
“I have got a son, studying music at the University of Cape Town.”
“That’s all they’re good at, these bastards, they spread your legs apart and leave you with the responsibilities of motherhood”.
There was an uneasy quietness between them. June reflected on how damn right the elderly woman was. The father of her son had disappeared like he had been eaten by volcanic lava when she told him she was pregnant. She was eighteen and in matric.
After giving birth the following year, June went back to school to complete her matric, leaving her son in the care of her mother. The boy was raised by his grandparents.
“And you, do you have children? I guess you never married too.”
“No, I don’t have children. I don’t know my father.” And now her throat was stern and sharp with resentment. “I was raised by my grandmother after my mother died of stress-related illness.” Her tiny shoulders rocked, sobbed.

June ran her open hand down her back, feeling Miss Daisy’s spinal bones, and she felt she didn’t have to continue with her poignant tale.
“We’re friends now, June, aren’t we?” The sister nodded in affirmation. “Poor thing, my grandmother also died when I was in high school. I grew up in different orphanages.”
Miss Daisy was born in Liverpool, UK. “I was awarded a bursary and graduated with a Master’s degree in Anthropology. I taught at various universities in the UK before I came to South Africa.”
Miss Daisy wiped off the tears trickling down her face with the back of her hand. June wondered if Miss Daisy had siblings, and if she had, did she have contact with them. And her father, was he still alive? Miss Daisy was 85; it was beyond imagination her father would still be alive. What about friends, didn’t she have friends, and why not? June had a plethora of questions she wanted to ask Miss Daisy, but she considered they would not serve any purpose.

The first week of December signalled a mixture of exhalation and deep sadness for the old folks at an old age. Some children and relatives came to take their fathers, mothers, and grandparents to spend the Xmas holidays with them.
They were expected to bring back the elderly in the New Year. But some old folks, not by their design, would be left neglected at the facility to spend the season all by themselves. A depressing truth. Because there would be fewer than six old folks left, the place would run on a skeleton staff to save running costs. The home would be quiet, with no clinking of pots and whirring of refrigerators in the kitchen, the endless ringing of Mrs. Smith’s telephone, and the smoking engines of delivery trucks. The beating of the wind against the closed doors echoed in every room, and the whizzing sounds of the wind through window frames.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” asked Mrs. Smith. She leaned back in her chair and threw June a curious look.

Seated in the opposite chair, June informed her that Miss Daisy had agreed to spend the holidays with her and her son in their home in Mamelodi. “What if she doesn’t like the atmosphere in the township? Most white folks have never experienced life on that side of our country. Will that not be an inconvenience to you?”
“Well, isn’t it time for some white folks to learn the ways of life of their Black compatriots? I’m sure you still hold fond memories of the times when you managed the SOS Children’s Village in Mamelodi.”
“Of course I do”. Mrs. Smith moved around her desk, she and June stood in what seemed like a lingering embrace. “Merry Xmas to you and your son”.
“Merry Xmas Mrs. Smith. Give your family my profound love.”

On Christmas Eve, the sun was scorching hot, the sky cloudless when June’s son, Tshepo, parked his mother’s car in front of the entrance of the old age. He gazed to the side; and saw his mother strolling out of the door alongside Miss Daisy.
June’s handbag slung over her shoulder and pulled the luggage bag on its wheels. Tshepo stepped out of the car, walked to the back, opened the boot, and waited for the two women.
“Miss Daisy, this’s my son, Tshepo.”
“Look at him, such a handsome young man. I’m telling you June; you’ll need a whip to keep them away from him.”
Tshepo burst into amused laughter, took the bag from her mother, and placed it inside the boot. “I’m delighted to meet you Miss Daisy; my mother never stopped talking about you when she called me on the phone.”
“You’re lucky to have a mother like her,” said Miss Daisy, “June is such a pleasant person. I’m lucky to have such a friend like her.”
Talk and laughter were boisterous from the moment Tshepo left the old age home in the plush suburb of Sinoville north of Pretoria driving to Mamelodi. Tshepo and Miss Daisy got on well, like a house on fire. Throughout the holidays until the days he drove his mother and Miss Daisy back, their talks centred around music, RB, jazz, and classics.

Sister June could never fathom why people always became ill and ached with pain during the night, whereas during the day, they showed no signs of pain. That be so, though, she preferred working night shifts; it kept her on her toes, dashing from one room to the other to attend to someone curled in the bed, screaming in acute pain. After administering a dose of painkillers, June would go back and watch an old folk, deeply asleep in a moment of bliss and tranquillity.
It was before midnight when June sprinted into Mr. Blanco’s room, panting. Her gaze fell on him on the bed, lying on his back, his face covered in sweat, his breathing heavy, and his brown eyes dulled by pain.

Not that Blanco’s eyes would have been any different; June was used to his wrathful eyes.
June tore a piece of paper towel secured against the wall above the hand’s basin. “What’s the matter, Mr. Blanco?” She reached for his face to wipe off the sweat.
“Don’t you touch me”. The bark of his voice sneered with tension, and he pushed her away. “Get me the doctor”.
“Will do that, Mr. Blanco, but you must allow me to take your blood pressure first, to determine what could be the problem. You look feverish.”
“I don’t care how I look, call the damn doctor”. He turned away from her and faced the wall.

Realising there wasn’t much she could do to persuade Mr. Blanco otherwise, June hurried out. In her office, with frantic fingers, she dialled Doctor Jethro Cullinan’s number. “You know I’d not call you doctor if it wasn’t an emergency. Mr. Blanco refuses me to treat him. Thank you, doctor”. June drew a long breath of exasperation and slumped into a chair at her desk.
In what seemed for ages, after twenty-five minutes, June heard the doors of the car slamming, guessing it must be Dr. Cullinan; she hurried to the entrance, unlocked and held the door open for the doctor.

“I can’t understand how the miserable old Blanco can be so unreasonable”. Doctor Blanco walked past Sister June, his statoscopes dangling in his long hands.
June shrugged. “He’s so difficult, doctor, seen no one so stubborn. He would rather be tended only by white nurses.” She trailed the doctor.
In quietness, his forehead furrowed with creases of annoyance, Doctor Cullinan moved his stethoscope over Mr. Blanco’s chest. After a while, he removed the stethoscope and glanced at Sister June standing at the foot of the bed.
“Nothing to worry about sister, you can administer an antibiotics drip.”
“No, she can’t do that”. Mr. Blanco’s eyes glistened with rage.
Dr. Cullinan turned to look at Mr. Blanco. The doctor’s eyes narrowed with irritation. “Yes, she can, and she’ll Mr. Blanco.” His voice was stern. “Sister June is a professional nurse, and she knows exactly what is best for…” The doctor stopped short of saying ‘your pathetic life.” Dr. Cullinan balanced his weight on Mr. Blanco’s bed. “You know what? If you’re not satisfied with your stay here, you’re at liberty to go somewhere else to live the last days of your horrible past of racial prejudices”. He stormed out.

Three hours after she had administered the drip, the sister went back to check on Mr. Blanco, he lay in his bed in tranquillity, purring softly like a kitten.
Sister June did not leave for home immediately after her night shift ended on that Thursday morning in February. She was concerned about Miss Daisy’s health; she had a complaint about chest pains around 99 pm the previous night and her blood pressure was recorded at 160/90. The dose of painkillers did not provide any relief, and she lay curled in her bed, excruciating throughout the night.
Miss Daisy’s face was pale, drained of any signs of amusement, her eyes showed a tale of solemnness. Her limbs moved like they did not belong to her as she tried to point toward the chest of drawers at the head of her bed.
Though tired, June still smiled at her standing next to the bed. “Cheer up, sugar, Doctor Cullinan is coming to see you, everything will be fine”. She took her hand and squeezed it in reassurance.

A weak smile plastered Miss Daisy’s face. Her voice was weak and trembling. “Open the drawer”.
June opened the drawer, took out books and old women’s magazines, and placed them atop. “What do you want me to get for you?” She turned to look at Miss Daisy with eyes widened in with curiosity.
“A business card…” She cupped her mouth as her body quivered with a dry cough. “I want you to call Mr. Lipmann, ask him to come and see me right away, something urgent I want to speak to him about.”
June looked at the card, its corners bent inwards like dog ears, and read the information, Lipmann, Shapiro, and Schoeman Attorneys. At that moment, Dr. Cullinan, followed by a nurse, walked in.
“OK, old girl, will do so”. She bent and kissed her forehead, iron hot. “See you in the afternoon”, June waltzed out.
When she arrived home after an hour, June placed her handbag on the table, retrieved the business card, and called Mr. Lipmann’s office. “No, I’m not a client,” said June to the receptionist. “I’ve been asked to speak to Mr. Lipmann personally by her client…”
. “Oh… yea… Miss Daisy, hold on for Mr. Lippmann,” said the receptionist.
After listening to the silent telephone for a while, a husky male voice broke the silence.
“Lipmann.”
The attorney coughed endlessly into the telephone as he listened to June. “Yes, will do that right away, Miss Buthelezi. You’re a nurse at the old age home, you said, right?”
“Sister June, please come on in”, said Mrs. Smith as she saw June walking past her office in the late afternoon for her shift that evening. She walked around her desk, wringing her hands, and the radiance in her green eyes evaporated. “Please sit down”. Her gaze fell on the floor as June sat in a chair. “I’ve sad news for you”.
“Is it Miss Daisy?”
“Yes, I’m sorry June; I know how close you two have become.”
“When did she…?” June’s voice choked with emotion.
“Her lawyer, Mr. Lipmann, came to see her this morning, and she passed on an hour after the two of them had talked. Listen, June, I know how hard it is on you, you may go back home and come tomorrow evening for your shift”.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith, that’s very kind of you.”

June lay in bed that night, staring in blankness at the ceiling, unable to find sleep. She worried where Miss Daisy would be buried. At 7 am, she pushed her foot out from under the sheet, but she couldn’t negotiate with her limbs to function. She dragged herself out of the bed, and she took her cellphone from the dresser. June grabbed her gown hung behind the door, tucked the phone into her pocket, and trotted to the bathroom.
She looked into the mirror and ran her fingers below the bags underneath her eyes. In the kitchen, she plugged the kettle on. June sat at the table, her face resting on her palm and sipped at her coffee. She jerked in a startle as the phone vibrated against her thighs.
“Oh… Mrs. Smith, what can I say, guess I’ll be fine.” June pressed her itching eyes shut. “No, she has no living relatives. No, no close friends that I know of. I suppose that shouldn’t be a problem at all, Mrs. Smith. I’ll arrange everything for her burial, yes, the service everything, she’ll be buried here in Mamelodi. OK, I’ll keep you in the loop.”
June parked her car outside the gate of Anglican Church’s mission house in Mamelodi West. In the backyard, she negotiated her way on the stone path dotted with weeds after every stone to the back door. After three or five knocks, June heard the trudging of footsteps inside the house coming towards the door, and it swung open.
“Miss Buthelezi, please come in”. Father Jeremiah Zulu brushed back his wispy grey hair and stepped aside to let June in. She trailed the priest trudging in his black, oversized slippers.

In the living room, Mrs. Zulu, a heavyset woman, was slumped on a brown and battered couch. The temperature stood at 32 degrees Celsius. June noticed the windows were closed, and the thick brown curtains not drawn. There was inadequate light inside the room, like some movie theatre. The wall, once painted white, showed concrete beneath them, with fattish smudges. The red and run-down floor smelt of dust.
After he had sat down on a chair at the table, Father Zulu listened with intent at June, seated on the couch next to Mrs. Zulu.
“Miss Buthelezi,” the clergy allowed a mocking smile to cross his unshaven face. “From what I’ve gathered from you, this person was not a relative, she was just a friend of yours, right?”
“Yes, she was a friend.”
Father Zulu shook his head. “She was not a member of any church, nor was she a member of my congregation; I cannot see how you expect me to bury such a person.”
“Father, doesn’t the church have a social responsibility towards fellow humans? June’s eyes glistened with rage, and her voice trembled with irritation. “Miss Daisy did not have children, never married, and has no relatives; I was her only friend. Doesn’t the church care about the plight of such people?”

June felt a drop on her cheek, the second, the third, and tears ran down her face. She felt a mixture of anger, regret, and frustration inside her. In the UK, June had earned a descent salary, incomparable to the peanuts her South African colleagues earned. Besides her tithe and other contributions she had made towards the church, she had donated R10 000 for the maintenance of the church and the mission house. She was appalled by the derelict state of the mission house. She was convinced the donation was not used for what it was intended.
“I’ll not wonder anymore when people are critical of the irrelevance of the church. In fact, that is why they have stopped going to church. I know,” she pointed towards the window, “out there, there’d be someone prepared to bury Miss Daisy regardless she was a member of their church or not.” June stormed out.

As June had prophesied. A stocky priest in a navy blue cassock presided over Miss Daisy’s burial.
Back at home, hundreds of mourners stood in snaking queues in and outside the yard of June’s house, with disposable plate plates, to be dished food.
“These people”, Mrs. Smith nodded with her head towards the queue inside the yard. “Did they know Miss Daisy?”
June squeezed past some people in the queue and made way for Mrs. Smith, followed by Mr. Eddie Blanco.
“No, some are my friends, neighbours, friends of the friends, and friends of the neighbours. Black people do not invite people to funerals. Those who have the time join others to lend a helping hand to the bereaved family or friend.”
“A sign of Ubuntu, I suppose?’ said Mr. Blanco.
“That’s right”, a pleasurable smile plastered June’s face. It was beyond her that Mr. Blanco actually understood the principle. “I think that’s what makes us South Africans unique”.

Mr Blanco held June in a tight embrace and pecked her on both cheeks. “You’re a wonderful person, Sister June, you really are. He held her hands. “I’ll forever remain indebted to your kindness”.
At that moment, a car parked in front of Mrs. Smith’s car. She gazed, her face beamed with recognition as the passenger stepped out. With a smile on her face, she gazed at June and Mr. Blanco.
“That’s Mr. Lipmann, the lawyer I told you came to see Miss Daisy on the morning she passed on.”
“Yes, I remember that”. June’s eyes widened with curiosity.
“He had phoned looking for you and I told him you’re not in. He asked me for your home address and said he wanted to see you.” Mrs. Smith turned to glimpse at Mr. Lipmann approaching in slow strides, holding a white envelope in his hand.
“Afternoon Mrs. Smith. “What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Lipmann.
“I came with Mr. Blanco to bury Miss Daisy.”
Mr. Lipmann masked his surprise, bewildered that his client was buried in a township graveyard. “You didn’t tell me she’d be buried today. Anyway…”
Mrs. Smith cut in. “This is Sister June,” She turned to look at June, “Mr. Lipmann, I guess you two have not met.”
“Miss Buthelezi, of course, we spoke over the phone”. Mr. Lipmann shook June’s hand but continued holding it in his clasp.
“This document here”, Mr. Lipmann waved the envelope at June. “Is a testimony of your humility, a gesture of a profound friendship of two women from different backgrounds. He handed June the envelope. “Should you wish to discuss your inheritance with me, please come to my office”.
June held the envelope in her shaking hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lipmann”. With teary eyes, she looked on as Mrs. Smith and Mr. Blanco strolled to the car. She wiped off her eyes with her forefinger and waved at Mr Lipmann as he drove away.