Carol’s Column

Queen of the World mourned, even on Cape Flats

I met Florence Mdaka early yesterday as she arrived for work. Florence is what is referred to euphemistically as a cleaning lady.

She's been in her profession for nearly 40 years, ever since she left school at the age of 14 and went to the “big city” to work in order to send money home to her mother and seven siblings. Her father died from the “bad dust” in his lungs, she once told me. From this, I gathered he was a miner.

We often chat and I know she has two daughters, Virginia and Marjorie, both of whom are married with children of their own, and a son, William, who is 15 and in Standard 9.

Although her daughters left school early and never continued with their education, Florence is incredibly proud of William, who she says wants to become a doctor.

“I always tell William that education is the one thing that nobody can ever take away from you.”

On this day, Florence looked distraught. We greeted each other. “Hello, how are you, fine, thank you.” And: “Hello, how are you, fine, thank you.”

But: “I am not fine today, Carol,” she said. “My heart is heavy. I feel as if God has switched off a light.”

Had something happened to one of her children, perhaps to William?

“Are the kids okay?” I asked quickly.

“Yes, yes, my children are fine,” she answered. “But I am talking of the child who belonged to the world,” she said. “I am talking of Princess Di.”

I was disconcerted. Princess Diana, the Princess of Wales, seemed far removed from Florence Mdaka, who lived in a two-roomed house that slept nine in Philippi on the Cape Flats.

“It is sad that such a lovely young woman should die so tragically,” I said.

“But especially Princess Di,” replied Florence. “Where I live, we see death every day. It lives and breathes with us. We know it well. But Princess Di ...”. She shook her head.

“You see,” she continued, “she was a hope. Even though she was a princess and lived in a palace, she cared for people like me.

“Did you see the picture of her on the television when she sat with the children who had no legs?”

I nodded. “The landmine children.”

“Did you see the picture on the television when she sat with the children who had the sickness where the pieces fall off the body?”

“Leprosy,” I murmured.

“Did you see the picture on the television when she held the hand of the man with the Aids?”

“I saw it, Florence,” I said.

“Did you see the sadness on the face of her firstborn child when he walked with his father and brother. William, the one who has the same name as my son. The one who is 15 years old like my son. The one who will be the king one day.”

I was silent.

“You know, Carol, my William is luckier than that William. My William has his mother to hold him. My William has his mother to shout at him if he does not do his school work. My William has his mother to be cross with him if he smokes the cigarettes. My William has his mother beside him.”

I looked at Florence in her shapeless coat, her worn boots and magenta and orange scarf and thought of tall, slender, elegant and beautiful Princess Diana. Both with sons called William.

Of course, they shared much more. They shared compassion and caring.

Florence hugged me before she left. “That was a special somebody. She was the Queen of the World.”

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