The Meaningful Life of Themba Ndlazi
by Gopal Ramasammy-Cook

My Victorian-style house is the blue of periwinkle - the flower, not the marine mollusk. It had just been painted by the previous owners when I bought it two years ago, in November, 2034. Mandla didn't like that colour when he came home for his varsity break. Soon it will be his to do with as he likes.

I try not to dwell on the cruelty of the accident, but there's not much left for a man who's lost the use of his legs. Existential crisis, some would call it. But what really is the answer to life, the universe, and all that? "Being" and "nothingness" are no longer choices. To be? Definitely not! That is my answer, and by the end of this day it will be endorsed by my action before, and inaction after.

Nothing dramatic, no shower of blood from opened veins, no shattering of bones hitting the pavement, no gaping hole in the cranium, just a sip of almond scented liquid from a small unmarked phial, and the unbearable lightness of my being - the amputated leg should account for a few kilograms less - will be no more.

Should I leave a note? I owe it to Mandla.

My dearest son Mandla,

I have come to the conclusion that at least for me, there is no point in continuing. I have led a productive and ethical life, but the actions of that drunken driver have brought home what I suspected since your mother was taken from us. We have little choice over our destiny.

We come into this world through a combination of parents, place, time, and circumstances, over which we have no choice. Then, DNA and environment dictate our existence. Why do we even bother with this illusion of meaning?

Some believe that life is a preparation for the spiritual realm, where metaphysical hosts will thrust great revelations of our significance upon us. You know I don't subscribe to that fan club.

For these reasons, and ones I cannot begin to explain, I am exiting the stage. I leave this house, and my considerable investments to you. Please do not be concerned that I have suffered in any way. I am taking the sensible way out.

It is my wish that you excel in your studies, and become the best damn criminologist you can. Don't give up your other interests - your enjoyment of physical exercise that you got from me, and your love for painting and music from your mom. They will brighten dark times. I realize that these final statements are inconsistent with the position I've outlined above, but such is the absurdity of life.

Your loving dad,
Themba Ndlazi.

Now I must prepare. First, wheel myself down the hallway to my bedroom at the front of the house. Lay out clothes, all in black. The pure wool sweater and the Armani shirt. Yes, and the trousers of that suit I had made by those tailors on Savile Row, when I was on business in London. My Italian leather shoes, like the suit, will not fit Mandla. At least the left one will be of use. Should I wear the Rolex? No, Mandla can use that.

I'll use the mobile panic button to alert the security company just before I swallow. Don't want them arriving too soon. Must remember to lock the front door and security gate to slow them down a bit. They'll discover me well before the odours of decomposition emerge, but just to play it safe, a splash of the cologne Mandla gave me for my sixtieth. I'll position myself beneath the lemon tree in the courtyard. That way there'll be no mess inside, and the fragrance of the leaves and white blossoms are a nice parting memory.

Before I get dressed, I must go to the study for some final checks. Papers are all in order, but I must make sure they're easily accessible. I hate how the left wheel of my wheelchair scratches the Oregon pine floors. Meant to get it seen to. Oh well, that won't be necessary now.

The study used to be the nursery. Its walls are still bright yellow. No doubt Mandla will change that. Photographs of my wife, Jessica, occupy one corner of the large mahogany desk. I pick up my favourite, the one I took on our first date. She's wearing a suede jacket with fur cuffs, and a short skirt and boots that show her sexy legs. She looks so happy.

Then there is the one that still makes me cringe, taken six months before she died. She still sparkles with happiness, and time has drawn pencil-lines of laughter around her eyes. Her casual clothes make soft folds, and hearty laughter hides the pain of the cancer that wracks her body.

"I'm sorry my love," I kiss both photographs in turn. "Sorry for being such a coward. Perhaps we'll meet again." Vain hope. I don't really believe that.

In the top drawer of my desk I find the small yellowwood box left by the previous owners. I tried to return it, but they had left no forwarding details. I never opened it. It felt too much like prying. Now there's no reason for such petty morality.

I lift the lid. Disappointment. All it contains is one small scrap of folded paper. Is this what I've been "too ethical" to look at? Is this all? I unfold the piece of paper, and read the scribbled words. I read them again. I close my eyes to ponder their meaning.

Hours later, darkness has descended. The day has exhausted me, and after reading the note one more time, I fall asleep at my desk.

Daylight creeps over the mountain. I awake with a pool of spittle smeared down the side of my stubbled face. My arm is numb - pins and needles. My back and neck are stiff. It takes a while to mobilize my body. The first thing I see is the note.

I have an appointment with my physiotherapist. She'll arrive in a few hours. Must erase the signs of the previous day. Without thinking, I tear up my letter to Mandla, and wheel myself to the bathroom. For a moment I hesitate, then flush the letter fragments and the contents of the phial down the toilet.

I run a hot bath with aromatic oils, and while holding the crumpled note between my teeth, I lower myself into the comforting warmth of the water. I lay back. AAhh. The dusky-pink stenciled border that Mandla likes floats into focus above the white wall-tiles.

Clutching the now soggy note, I make up my mind. Later, I'll call for a taxi, after I've dressed up in the clothing I laid out the day before. I'll treat myself to lunch at a fine restaurant. On the way there, I'll stop at Exclusive Books, to pick up some travel guides, and while at lunch, I'll plan that vacation I've been promising myself for years.

I read the note once more. I don't believe in coincidences, but it seems tailored to my circumstance. "The view from outside is cold and bleak, but inside there is a perspective that adds warmth and individuality - call it a personality, or even a soul." I ponder the words for a while. They were probably written about a building, but they apply equally well to a person. From the outside we are fairly insignificant. But from inside we have a view of ourselves and of our relationships with others, which brings some meaning to this chaotic world. So what if it's an illusion? Perhaps that's all we can hope for.

I crumple the piece of paper and let it sink to the bottom of my bath, its words indelibly imprinted in my memory.

© Gopal Ramasammy-Cook