At midnight, as the moon casts a slice of light on a dusty hospital floor, the year could be any other.
The nurses who have looked desperately at the ventilator pumping oxygen into Maria’s lungs for the past few days keep their distance in doorways down the hall and the dawn scramble for fresh N95 masks is about six hours away.
Besides the cold, life-sustaining beeps of machinery and the brittle symphony of coughs punctuating the stillness, everything is silent when Maria finally cracks an eye open.
Silent, strange and about five days into the future.
Maria does not remember the accident or the make of the car, but in the newspapers, witnesses say it was a silver sedan. A sleek, silver bullet barreling down the street that sent a beautiful, unidentified, dark-skinned woman in a baby blue dress flying two metres into the air before the whole world switched black.
Maria is not her real name and for the moment, the woman cannot remember it. Neither does she know just yet that it’s what the nurses call her because whoever was around when she hit the ground must have stolen her purse and, in Namibia, the name Maria is as likely a guess as Martha or Selma.
The nurses don’t check in on the woman too often because her condition didn’t change very much after the accident. Instead, they’ve taken to walking by her room, shaking their heads and quipping without mirth.
“Car accident or coronavirus. That’s how you’ll die in Namibia”.
Maria does not remember her name or the accident that brought her here and she doesn’t remember the pandemic either.
Instead, she opens her eyes after five days of oblivion and even though she has lived in the new normal, her blurry memories only kick in from before. Many halcyon months ago when the world seemed devoid of masks, hand sanitisers and the constant hum of dread that has become the score of living in the time of Covid-19.
Maria’s throat hurts a little from being intubated but before her is a strangely beautiful, merciful place to start her return to remembering.
Her mind is foggy and frayed at the edges but she remembers long-haul flights to warm, sparkling seas.
She recalls her smiling family driving away for their summer holiday. She summons a dog-eared manuscript piled high on a polished wooden desk but her heart skips a beat when she remembers the photo frame next to it.
Smiling from within the square is the face of a man whose grin chills her blood as more memories rush in.
It’s the proud face of the same man who courted her kindly enough. Taking her out on dates, sharing sweet childhood secrets and visiting the graves of her family who were all killed by a speeding driver in a head-on collision three years ago.
This was before he grew paranoid, possessive and violent and she had to break it off, change her number, watch her back.
She doesn’t remember her ex-boyfriend’s name but after a night nurse rushes in and says “It’s a miracle!”, another pushes the newly free ventilator down the coughing hall, one more reads her the report about the silver car that hit her and the last gives her that day’s newspaper to jog her memory and pass the time, Maria reads it on the second page.
“Top police officer succumbs to Covid-19.”
Maria wouldn’t have paid the article much mind if it hadn’t been for the photograph. Her late not that great ex-boyfriend leaning proudly against a silver sedan with all the charm of a viper.
The same car that stalked her down a street and sped up as she stepped onto a pedestrian crossing, running her over in a burst of malice, ego and rejection that sent her high into the air and a quickly receding abyss.
“Car accident or corona. That’s how you’ll die in Namibia,” says the nurse, catching sight of the headline and shaking her head, half hidden behind a surgical mask.
“That…” says Maria, a shudder snaking hotly down her spine as she turns the page over to read the coverage on the week’s glut of rape cases.
“Or men.”
In an age of information overload, Sunrise is The Namibian’s morning briefing, delivered at 6h00 from Monday to Friday. It offers a curated rundown of the most important stories from the past 24 hours – occasionally with a light, witty touch. It’s an essential way to stay informed. Subscribe and join our newsletter community.
The Namibian uses AI tools to assist with improved quality, accuracy and efficiency, while maintaining editorial oversight and journalistic integrity.
Stay informed with The Namibian – your source for credible journalism. Get in-depth reporting and opinions for
only N$85 a month. Invest in journalism, invest in democracy –
Subscribe Now!
