3 465 cases
Recovered: 903
Deceased: 58

Today, I want to share an open letter to South Africa, written by Jessica Mills, a Grade 11 student from Thomas More College in Kloof, Durban. What makes this letter even more special to me, is that this beautiful soul is related to a friend of mine, Taryn Mills Groenewald, from George. This letter brought tears to my eyes, and needs to be shared far and wide. This letter says it all – there really is nothing I can add that will make it more relevant and valid, especially now.

Dear Mama Africa,

I write you this letter to say thank you. For the past 17 years, you have been good to me. You have given me a home and borne me your fruits before I was even old enough to ask. You painted me sunsets of gold and performed each stroke with a harmonious rhythm that couldn’t be recreated anywhere else in the world. On my first birthday, you gifted me the very soil I would learn to take my first steps on, and as I grew older you taught me the ways of your culture. Everything I do is because of you.

Because of you, I call traffic lights “robots” and I call diapers “nappies”. Mama, you have united my people and sheltered them regardless of their age, race or status. Your affection and nurturing has been unconditional, and for that, I love you. You are who I am and no amount of time or distance could ever scratch out your name.

But, I also write this letter to say sorry. I am sorry for any piece of litter I threw on the ground because I was too lazy to find a bin. I am sorry for the times I cursed your name when I looked to other lands and assumed their grass was greener. I am sorry that when I noticed your dams begging for rain and your land cracking into dust that I chose to carry on with my selfish life. But mostly, I am sorry that my apology didn’t come sooner. I am sorry that I am apologising too late.

Your beauty and purity is emphasised by current events. Our human sense of entitlement has demanded too much of you, and our reckless behaviour has caused us nothing but destruction. With global warming and an intimidating virus threatening our survival, I don’t fear the extinction of humans. Instead, I fear that due to my running out of time, I will never be able to return your graces. Once your children are gone, I fear that your senses will struggle to adapt to your new-found solidarity.

I fear that your ears will find the silence suffocating as you no longer hear the obnoxious noise bellowing from taxis and proud Vuvuzelas. I fear that your tongue will forget the taste of our spices and that your nose will forget the unmistakable smell of a nearby braai. I worry that you will no longer be able to feel the hollow imprints of our footsteps and that once your natural beauty is restored, you will feel lonely having no one to share the view with.

Mama, I can’t change my ways in the past, but I can promise you that from this day forward I will give you every piece of me as you did all those years ago. I will seize each day that I have with you and show you what I am able to do with all that you have given me. I will warm in your sunlight, and I will cool in your rivers. I will use my hands to plant you a new life, and I will acknowledge every aspect of your elegant grace, not letting a single flower pass me by without admiring the intricate detail you invested into it. I promise that I am thankful. I promise that I am sorry. I promise that I am going to make you proud.

Jessica Mills

22 April 2020