Dr Celiwe Dada is a South African medical doctor and mother of three who has recently gained significant attention on social media, particularly TikTok, due to her candid storytelling about her personal life. She has shared her experiences of surviving an abusive marriage, focusing on the emotional and financial toll it took on her.

Have you ever moved to a neighbourhood, town, city or country and lost the community you were part of? How did you build a new network? Have you ever been witness to someone’s distress, for example, the wailing of a neighbour or a woman being beaten, and you have held your peace, too scared to intervene?

That was me as a younger, less confident woman. This is why networks are so important. There’s a story from Nicaragua of a group of women coming together to beat up the man in their neighbourhood who beat his wife. The beating stopped.

This subject of community and its importance is on my mind because a series of unsettling conversations have emerged from South Africa that compel us to question the fabric of our communities. Dr Celiwe Dada, a doctor who endured years in an abusive relationship, Nonkanyiso ‘LaConco’ Conco, a teenage girlfriend and mother of one of former president Jacob Zuma’s children and reality star, is now revealing the complexities of her life.

These stories serve as poignant reminders of the role community plays—or fails to play—in the lives of people facing dire circumstances. Alongside popular reality dramas like Uthando neS’thembu, these narratives shed light on the intense personal struggles within relationships and the critical silence from family and community members who might have intervened.

When browsing social media comments about Dr Dada, some criticise her by suggesting that her doctorate has not protected her from abuse, overlooking the fact that she was only 18 when she fell in love with a man who would become her abuser. Similarly, in discussions about LaConco, we often see comments like “uyaphapha” directed to her for being forward when referring to her relationship with a man over 60, a president at the time.

While it is essential for people to take responsibility for their actions, these reactions also highlight a broader societal issue.

Rather than solely blaming these women, we must examine the systemic factors and cultural narratives that contribute to their situation. At the core of these stories lies a troubling theme: the absence of communal support and intervention during times of crisis. Dr Dada’s experience with abuse, which left her both financially and emotionally scarred, raises vital questions about the vigilance and engagement of those closest to her.

Similarly, LaConco’s experiences highlight the need for community awareness and accountability. Why are family, friends, and neighbours often silent witnesses to the suffering of their loved ones? Does this silent complicity stem from an ingrained individualistic approach to life, where personal autonomy and privacy are prioritised over communal responsibility and engagement?

The rise of individualism, particularly in contemporary society, has profound implications for the health of our communities. In many cases, it fosters an environment where people feel disconnected from one another, reluctant to intervene in the lives of others out of fear or belief that it is not their place to do so. This mentality can lead to a dangerous bystander effect, where people look away even when they know something is wrong.

The narratives we see on social media and television vividly illustrate this; we are left questioning why the friends and family of participants do not step in to provide support or assistance when they clearly need it. The lack of intervention suggests troubling normalcy in isolating individual struggles rather than embracing the collective responsibility of being part of a community.

Community matters because it fosters connection, belonging, and mutual support. When people come together, they create a collective awareness that amplifies voices that might otherwise remain unheard. The importance of solidarity cannot be overstated; it is through our bonds with one another that we find the strength to face challenges, hold each other accountable, and cultivate resilience.

Communities prioritising collective well-being empower their members to speak up against abuse or exploitation. They create safe spaces where people can share their struggles without fear of judgment or isolation, establishing a culture of care essential to personal and collective healing.

However, the growing trend toward individualism poses significant challenges. In a world increasingly obsessed with self-sufficiency and personal achievement, we may lose sight of the interdependencies that define our existence. The individualistic mindset often leads to a lack of understanding regarding our influence over one another’s lives. It breeds apathy towards the struggles of our fellow community members, creating an atmosphere where problems like domestic abuse or financial exploitation can flourish unchallenged. This shift away from collectivism inevitably undermines the very foundation of community, eroding the connections that should bind us together in times of need.

This is the column that almost did not happen. Sometimes, it is as though there’s too much happening in life, and there’s no headspace for writing. This week, that is what happened for both Mapi and me, where we both found ourselves overwhelmed by the very things we write about each week in Live By Design.

Eight of us sit in a circle, sifting through drawers of photographs. We are relatives gathered together because my much beloved Tante Inge has died. There is a groan from her 33-year-old grandchild. He wants to look at photos on Inge’s phone. He cannot open it. It needs her fingerprint. That’s not going to happen. We cremated her earlier in the day. “Oh my goodness,” exclaims Inge’s daughter, “What will happen when I die? My phone has facial recognition.”

Access to her fingerprints is not the first hiccup we have faced since 80-year-old Inge passed unexpectedly in the early hours of Monday morning. She’d had a good weekend, a Saturday of shopping and getting her hair styled. Amid our sadness at her passing, we were delighted when her children, my cousins, told us that her TV tray from Sunday showed she’d rounded off her evening (and unknowingly her last meal) with champagne and dark chocolate.

Later on Monday, the practicalities arising from her sudden death kicked in. Access to ready cash – that is the most immediate challenge. My cousin had spontaneously phoned the bank, “My mother just died,” she said, “what is there that we need to do?” Mistake. That one call unlocked the entire process to freeze ALL accounts.

My cousin choked when she realised what she had done. She had her Mum’s bank account PIN and credit card, as she regularly did her mother’s grocery shopping. She tried, unsuccessfully, to charm the bank clerk, “Can’t you just forget that this call ever took place?”

On Wednesday, we spent yet another whole day organising things for the funeral and the after tears. We went to the print shop – hours had gone into selecting eight portrait photos, one for every decade, for her funeral card.

We went to the flower shop. Everything needs attention to detail – exactly how many stems of the white flowers will be required to cover the top of the coffin? The after tears food? Inge’s children decide it should be one of her favourite meals – Bavarian bratwurst sausage and poppy seed cake. The butchery and the bakery were the next shops we visited to place the order. How many sausages? How many people might come? There are no exact figures – only guesstimates.

We end this day exhausted, physically and emotionally. My aunt’s preferred pastor, a lovely woman with presence and depth, is away and only available next week to officiate the funeral. We are being careful to be kind to each other. Our relatives slept in every room, including the home office and the lounge.

It is Mapi’s turn to write the column this week, so at least it is not on my to-do list. I can relax—or at least that is what I thought.

All day Thursday, I sneak peeks at my phone. Curious. What’s Mapi writing about this week? Sometimes, we share ideas and sometimes suggest additions or restructuring of paragraphs. What consistently happens is that we sign off on each other’s draft, indicating we are comfortable with what has been written.

Thursday after lunch. Sneak peek at my mobile. Nothing.

Exchange of messages.

Me: Just came back from undertakers.

Mapi: Just came back from two-day strategy session. Will write this afternoon.

Late afternoon. Cousins sitting together looking at photographs.

Sneak peek at mobile. Nothing from Mapi.

Thursday evening. The message comes in that makes me realise that Mapi has her own tsunami that she’s handling. A relative has died. Overweight. A special coffin is needed. Mapi has no headspace to write.

When I find myself awake at dawn on Friday, I decide to grab the quiet time and write about why it has been difficult this week.

This leads me to a bigger question I am grappling with. How do people manage to fulfil work obligations at a time of bereavement? And if you do succeed in accomplishing all the practical activities, at what cost? Do you put your emotions on ice to connect with later when the rituals and gatherings are over?

If you review human resource policies for bereavement, the paid leave days are minimal. In South Africa, employees who have been employed for at least four months are typically entitled to 3 days of paid bereavement in one annual leave cycle. This leave falls under the category of “family responsibility leave,” which can be used in the event of the death of an immediate family member like a spouse, parent, child, or sibling. This leave is usually considered part of the standard employment contract and can be verified with proof of death.

Three days of paid leave for a spouse, a parent, or a child! In my family experience and culture, I’ve needed at least a couple of weeks off work. And that was only to deal with the practicalities.

When my father died, I got on a plane and spent two weeks supporting my mother. I was the chauffeur, the communications officer, the programme coordinator, and the liaison with the police after a burglary. I returned home two weeks later. Only then, finally free of logistical busyness, could I sit uninterrupted with my sadness.

As I anticipate further bereavements in my circle, I realise the importance of two things. Firstly, the ultimate act of kindness to your loved ones is to be as prepared as possible in terms of the practicalities of dying. Minimise their stress over decision-making, passwords, or access to money. Second, after the practicalities are over, many of us will need time to connect more privately and tenderly with our feelings.

Our choices about how, where, and with whom to spend our elderliness are not always straightforward—economics and relationships impact decision-making.

My friend Fifi is trying to identify a carer for her mum, who lives in a rural village. If she were to want to bring her mom to live with her in Johannesburg, currently, there are just too many challenges to navigate. As a single mom without a great support system, she already juggles complex logistics.

My mom would have been over the moon to move in with me. I never tried that option, so I cannot say what toll it may have taken on my then-recent marriage, but I anticipated severe strain. I had accepted my mother’s request to never live in a retirement home. My solution (my brothers were AWOL) was to find accommodation for my mom in the same apartment building.

I sympathised with my mother’s prejudice towards retirement homes. I have heard these comments in my circle: “I’ve stopped taking nice clothes for my mother to the retirement home. The next time I visit her, they’ve been shrunk in the wash or gone missing.” OR “When my mother died, I realised just how much of her jewellery had gone missing.”

Another acquaintance who moved into a retirement village with her frail husband, who wanted to support for the situation she found herself in, said how hard it was to read the regular death announcements on the notice board.

So Mapi surprised me when we had the time to chat for long hours on holiday. She is saving, she said, so that she can spend her elderliness in a retirement village. She explained that her bottom line is that she does not want to depend on family members for support.

I respect that she has a lot of experience within her own family about how problematic it can be for the younger generation to support an elderly relative financially, emotionally, and health-wise. People with full-time jobs do not have time to transport parents, aunts, and uncles and sit with them in long queues at a clinic. Or they make time, at a cost to themselves and even their performance at work.

I have discovered that, at their best, retirement villages can be fabulous for all concerned. I visited a friend who’s just moved into a bungalow in a high-end village. She is surrounded by her carefully chosen mementoes of a long life. I know her adult children are relieved that she is no longer living alone – especially when they no longer live in the same city. She commented cheerfully, “I have come here to die. I’ve told my children that I want to die here, in my own bed.”

I am not sure whether that last wish will come true. And there might be a better option for all concerned. This is a story recently shared with me.

“We are three siblings, and none of us are living full-time in Johannesburg any longer or are able to have my mother live with us. My mother agreed the family home would be sold, and together with my siblings, we chose a retirement home.

During Covid, many of us put our affairs in order. For my mother, this included completing her Do Not Resuscitate document (DNR).

I was in Cape Town when I got the call that my mother had had a stroke. I got on the first flight I could. When I arrived, my siblings and aunt were with my mother. There was an ambulance parked at reception.

The head nurse asked to speak with me. Your mother’s condition is serious. She has a Do Not Resuscitate order in place. We have the ambulance at the ready to take her to hospital, but we want to know if you want the DNR to prevail?

I responded that I needed to speak alone with my aunt and asked that she be called to join us. My aunt, sad and stoic, said, “It’s bad.” She supported that the DNR should prevail. The ambulance would not be needed. My siblings were angry. They treated me as though I was the witch from hell.

The family took turns entering and out of the retirement home’s high-care nursing room. Management asked to speak with me. “Your mother isn’t going quickly. We have a designated bungalow. If you like, we could move your mother there, and you’ve got two bedrooms available for sleeping over.” It was a godsend to have this space.

And it was true; my mother was taking her time. Death, to us, did not seem imminent. To my lay eyes, there was no sign of deterioration. On the third day, the nurse, taking most responsibility for my mother’s treatment, making sure she was comfortable and free from pain, asked if I would come with her for a walk on the grounds. I went.

“I want you to be ready. You realise that today may be the day.” I looked at her with surprise. “Your mother’s hands and feet are cold. She is wearing socks,” she continued. If you roll down her socks, you’ll notice that her skin is purplish.”

My mother died that day. As a family, we were all ready. It was beautiful. I will be forever grateful for the nursing and the psychological support we received.

This story has challenged some of my assumptions. I assume I would prefer to die at home and find it hard to make the transition to living in a retirement village. I have not considered the support such quality nursing care can offer a family. I am questioning my assumptions, and I am looking at my finances. What might be affordable?

More to come!

How often do we see the signs “In Case of Emergency.”

They are in the corridors in the workplace near the fire extinguishers.

There is a notice in every lift we step into.

There are the signs in the aeroplane indicating the seats with the emergency exits.

But what about carrying “in case of emergency” information on our person?

Last week, I was the single driver on a six-hour journey returning to Johannesburg. I had three pit stops planned: leg stretches and coffee breaks. As usual, driving the N4 highway means travelling alongside haulage trucks, many carrying timber.

I drove up a hill, slowing down to approach my first stop, an orchid nursery with delicious coffee. I noticed a fast-approaching vehicle in the overtaking lane – an articulated haulage truck zipping along without a load. Simultaneously, I spotted a large log in the road ahead of the truck. I watched aghast as the truck’s front left tyre clipped the edge of the log. Like playing tiddlywinks, the log flipped up high and flew through the air towards me.

Pfaff. A loud bang. Tiny shards of glass hit my face. The passenger side of my windscreen was shattered. I watched the truck continue on its way, apparently oblivious to the accident it had just caused. Lucky for me, while the car took the impact, I was able to keep steady on the road.

A bit shaken, I stopped for an hour. It was a day when I did not need to hurry. I took some Rescue Remedy. The orchid stall staff were immensely kind. They had a roll of wide, clear tape and did a great job placing strips over the windscreen, inside and out, and over the damaged area. I was able to continue my journey.

At my next stop, I called the insurance company (the details are on a post-it in the glove compartment). I gave my policy number, and I received an e-mail with the claim number details when I arrived in Johannesburg.

For a few days, I walked around with gratitude, feeling the angels were on my side. Our building handyman looked at my vehicle and said, “God has his ways. It was not your time.”

Sitting at my desk on Monday morning, I thought again about what had happened. I had had the insurance company contact numbers – in case of a hijack, in case of a crash. But what about at-the-ready contact details of my beloved nearest and dearest? If I had not been so lucky, if I had crashed badly, if I had been unconscious in my vehicle, how would emergency services have known who to contact?

And what about if things were so bad that I had been rushed to the nearest ICU – how were they to know that I have a Do Not Resuscitate order, an Advance Directive, and a named Health care proxy to make decisions on my behalf?

Helena Dolny’s wallet. (Photo: Supplied/ Helena Dolny)

I immediately created a stiff wallet card – with the words “Emergency Contacts” highlighted. I wrote down five names and five mobile numbers: my husband, my elder daughter, my younger daughter, my health care proxy, and my GP – he has a copy of my Do Not Resuscitate order on file.

I am going to do one more thing. I am going to copy what a doctor friend of mine living in London has done. When you enter his house and pass the entrance hall table, you notice an A4 envelope with his name and “In case of Emergency” written in exceptionally large bold letters. This envelope contains his Living Will.

I never liked looking at this envelope when I was a house guest. It shouts at you as you arrive. But I am now more convinced than before that practicality should trump aesthetics.

I have one final thing to work through – my Purple File and our LoveLegacyDignity Checklist for Checking Out. Go to our website, www.lovelegacydignity; the Purple File is freely downloadable. It has been a couple of years since I last did it, and an update is needed.

Next week, Mapi and I are off on our “friendship adventure,” a long-planned trip to Vietnam. If something were to happen to the two of us, who would take over LoveLegacyDignity? Nomfundo, the baton will be yours to pick up. Yes, we have completed the submission of the NPO documentation.

What is one of the things I fear the most? Posthumous embarrassment. Yes, I know it is laughable, as I do not expect to be able to listen to the possible scathing comments. But don’t you agree, it would be so embarrassing to have been such a crusading advocate of Paperwork and affairs in order and then to be found to have fallen short of expectations?

I fear not showing up and not living according to what we at LoveLegacyDignity advocate. I feel an obligation to be exemplary and to practice what we preach. My affairs are in order, and my house is decluttered.

I hope you, too, will be convinced to act. Create a wallet card. Place your Advance Directive in a visible place. I also sincerely hope they will not be needed in the near future!

 

It’s a dilemma that gnaws at the very core of our being: how do we reconcile love for family with the reality of their monstrous actions? How do we navigate the tightrope of loyalty and morality when those we care about have become entrenched in all that is wrong?

During my holidays, my book-loving self came across Giles Harvey’s December 2024 New York Times 25-page expose of a family history that literature lovers worldwide did not want to know. Canadian Alice Munro, Nobel Prize winner, had known that her husband, stepfather to her three daughters, had abused her youngest nine-year-old. Munro pretended not to know. Later events reveal otherwise. She failed to support and protect her child. There was a covenant of silence. Too many held too much fear about the consequences of truth-telling.

I was gob-smacked by what I read.

Closer to home:

“I have always known that my brother is a scamming, lying piece of work who has not only groomed and destroyed dozens of young girls who were his pupils but has also been a horrible husband to his wife. But in the 37 years I have been aware of his dark side, I have always believed and hoped he would change. Now at 59, he is head over heels involved with one of his former pupils, who is now 23 and just as delusional as he is.

My brother’s descent into darkness began in his twenties when he made the outrageous claim that he was a medical doctor, taking on the title of Dr Gumbi—not his real surname, of course. A few years later, it became clear that this was a complete fabrication. Somehow, he found himself teaching at the local high school, where he used his charm and mathematical abilities to convince others of his brilliance. Even today, people think he holds a PhD. He has a gift of gab—an uncanny knack for convincing people to see him as something he is not.

Beneath his facade lies a man who has caused immeasurable harm. He has impregnated at least four of his pupils and engaged in numerous affairs with them. It’s an uncomfortable truth to acknowledge; what he has done can easily be classified as rape. Yet, because he is blood, I still feel compelled to wrap up his disgusting character in a way that seems more palatable, as if softening the blow of his actions will somehow lessen the chaos he leaves in his wake.”

During the recent holidays, a friend shared this burden with me. She spoke of her brother, a man much like mine, who had walked a similarly dark path.

Over the years, my brother has inflicted immeasurable misery on our family, a story steeped in the darkness that involves two murders, a prison sentence, and, at 60, a protection court order stemming from his relentless abuse of my sister, the one who tirelessly cares for our family home. We have endured years of verbal, emotional, and, at times, physical torment, yet despite the havoc he has wreaked, he remains a presence in our lives. How is it that someone capable of such destruction continues to be part of our story?

My friend confided in me about her own struggles with guilt and the toll her “doctor” brother is having on her sense of what is right and wrong and mental health. Despite being on the verge of retirement, the weight of his actions looms large. My friend was clearly troubled, grappling with whether she should confront him. She sought advice, though any words I could offer felt inadequate in the face of such horror. My heart ached for her; the burden she carried mirrored my struggle with my brother.

In sharing her story, I was reminded of the eerie parallels between our two brothers, and this revelation only deepened my sense of helplessness. Every fibre of my being wants to protect her from the anguish that comes with confronting a loved one’s misdeeds. I understand that the pain of knowing can sometimes feel heavier than the burden of ignorance. And yet, isn’t it a moral imperative to hold these men accountable?

As I listened, it struck me that my friend’s sister-in-law had confided in her not merely as an act of admission to witnessing these acts for years but as a desperate plea for understanding. Perhaps, in some twisted way, she hoped to absolve herself of his sins, saying nothing. But my friend has known about this for longer than her sister-in-law.

I told my friend that accountability requires more than mere confession; it demands action and confrontation, often against the very fabric of familial bonds.

For my friend, the decision to confront her brother is fraught with uncertainty. Should she expose him to the world, risking the wrath of an unforgiving society? Or should she seek to understand why he fell into such depths, perhaps even offering a chance for rehabilitation? Each option carries its weight, each threatening to tip the scales of familial love into the abyss of disgust and betrayal.

This internal conflict brought back memories of my brother’s misdeeds, and I realized that the burden we carry often remains unshared, festering in silence. We become complicit in the acts we refuse to confront, allowing harmful behaviours to persist under the guise of familial loyalty. Yet, what kind of love allows abuse, deception, and betrayal to run rampant?

I thought of the girls whose lives her brother had irrevocably changed—their futures altered, their potential stifled. Each one was a victim of a man who should have been their protector and guide, yet chose to exploit them instead. How many more would suffer if his actions remained unaccounted for?

So, I took a deep breath and considered my friend’s dilemma. “It may not be easy,” I finally said, “but confronting him may not only bring you peace but could also prevent future harm. You carry the burden of knowing; don’t let it weigh you down in silence. Speaking up could be the first step towards healing—for you, for him, and for those he has hurt.”