When journalist Toby Shapshak first broke the news of Tshabalala-Msimang’s death over Twitter, there were very few condolences on the public timeline.

People tend to have long memories when it comes to hundreds of thousands of lives that could have been saved had Tshabalala-Msimang and the rest of the Mbeki-acolytes rolled out antiretrovirals (ARVs) instead of being drunk on denialism.

There is the matter of her legacy; a recipe for a good braai accompaniment. No doubt the beetroots, olive oil, garlic and lemons read like a meal on speed. However, it should also be noted that a lot of the media at the time did not adequately emphasise the link between a well-balanced diet and the efficacy of ARVs.

We all had our digs at Manto. Her reported drinking problems, controversial liver transplants and alleged kleptomania; these were enough for us to burn her effigies, stoking the flames with the newspaper accounts of a health minister who called time of death on the plot. Stephen Grootes has written an evenly-keeled piece on Manto’s passing in The Daily Maverick.

Now, I would like to speak ill of the living.

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Oft times when one encounters a brick wall, an overwhelming urge for capitulum to kiss clay with vigorous repetition presents itself.

In such an instance you would do well to be mindful of  a caveat or two; a stubborn wall  rarely commits to anything while living tissue tends to book the caterers.

Granny’s been over for a few days while Naeem observes Itikaaf. She would say, “Haha karakarwanu, ek kaan ma ti karilakwanu.*”

That’s a good bunch of sage to carry around as a taaweez**.

If God does not mind where I pray,
Who on Earth are you to say?

A response to the twitter conversations and the commentary on this post.