Valli : Personal Journal of Valli Pillay, a Living Dead Pandemic Survivor

Entry 2

How do you start a journal such as this? The first entry doesn't count.

I need to figure out how to talk about what's on my mind, what's in my soul and in my heart. I need to talk about my past life.

Pedro suggested I talk about the good times before I start talking about the bad times.

Like Fergie said, things were improving. In the two years I've been in Namibia we were gradually taking back control from the fiends. Slowly getting our planet back. Although, I find it difficult to let my guard down. I'm always on edge, ready for anything. I have my knife with me always and a machete or club within arm's reach. Even when I am at work putting together the solar panels at the Solar Power Department, my weapons are close by. Everyone says the closest fiend is thousands of miles away. The Global Council, which is essentially the government for the whole world and what's left of humanity, claims most of the fiends in southern Africa have been eradicated. I'm not buying it. Before the pandemic things were just fine too. Then humans almost became extinct. I almost became extinct.

When I was fourteen, I did not think about survival or becoming extinct. My mind was on what top to wear, or convincing Mom to let me use nail polish and makeup. It doesn't feel so long ago; seven years is really nothing.

Back in those days I lived in Mauritius, the little island in the southwest corner of the Indian Ocean, one of Africa's smaller nations. Life in Mauritius was good. My dad, Mani, was an electrical engineer. Everyone in our village knew him because of his white pickup truck which had the name Seoul Systems in huge orange letters on the sides. My mom, Tanuja, worked as a primary school teacher. A lot of parents told their kids, "If you don't listen, I will tell Mrs. Pillay." The kids were terrified of her, but loved her at the same time. Then there was my younger sister, Vani, who was ten and went to the New Grove Primary School where Mom taught. We had mixed roots—Malagasy and Chinese—but we were predominately Tamil. We were what they called a Tamil/Creole-Mauritian family, comfortable in a kovil, a Tamil temple, or a church. I suppose I still am a Tamil/Creole, not that ethnic or religious labels have much meaning now. Our family lived in Rose Belle, a village close to the airport. As Dad liked to put it, "halfway between the sun and the rain," meaning halfway between Curepipe, Mauritius's second biggest town where it rained all the time, and Mahebourg, a village on the coast where it was always sunny. It was one of Dad's jokes, the ones only he thought were funny.

Vani and I were lucky; our parents had good jobs. We had lived in Australia for a while and every year we used to go on vacation overseas. We even visited Spain a year before the outbreak. I enjoyed the travelling. I suppose most people do. What I enjoyed most was the time spent with my family and friends. My paternal grandparents lived close to our house, a ten-minute walk away. I'd drop by after school, and sometimes spend the night there. My maternal grandmother, who I called Mam, lived in Beau Bassin, a half-hour drive away from Rose Belle. My maternal grandfather had passed away when I was small. Since Mam was alone, Vani and I spent weeks at her place when we were on holiday. She spoiled us but also had us do our chores.

"Good training for the future," she said. If only she knew.

Pedro is watching me write. He tells me Forward Reconnaissance Patrols have found a large group of survivors in the Okavango Delta in Botswana. About two to three thousand people. The patrol did a preliminary inspection. Thankfully they didn't find any infected. However, the survivors' supplies were running low. They had been living off freshwater fish and watercress for a long time.

"The Global Council have started sending them fresh supplies," Pedro says. "They'll be fine. The best part is there are lots of children among them."

Hearing there are lots of children cheered me up. Children means our species will survive. I guess my department will have to send them solar panels and instruction booklets on the next supply run. I'll send booklets in Portuguese too. People in Botswana speak English, but it'll be in case there are Angolans among them.

Pedro is happy when I tell him this.

"We Angolans are everywhere," he says.

I tell him to let me get back to writing.

Pedro sometimes reminds me of Andy. I think of him; Andy that is. He was a year older than me. I met him when I was 13 at my cousin Stephanie's birthday party. Something clicked. Teenage love? He asked me out during the summer holidays, which in Mauritius were from October to the second week of January. I accepted. My first boyfriend. What we had in common was we both had spent a few years in Australia when our parents were studying, and spoke English at home. We didn't do much, except to meet for a movie at the Mall of Mauritius or a milkshake in Curepipe. We were always careful to make sure no one saw us, but I'm sure my parents knew.

More about Andy later. I want to talk about my cousin Nalina from France. Nalina was Mom's oldest sister, Aunty Selvi's, daughter. Nalina's dad, Uncle Francois was French.

They visited Mauritius a month or two before the pandemic to celebrate Christmas and New Year. Mom and Aunty Selvi were always fighting about something or the other. Right after New Year we all got together at my mam's house for a special holiday dinner. Mam warned Mom and Aunty not to fight. They didn't, so dinner was awesome. But something weird happened. Nalina asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said yes and reminded her I had told her already.

"You be careful, okay?" she said, acting as if I was telling her for the first time. "Don't go getting pregnant."

We spoke in French because her attempts at English and Creole were funny and hopeless. Mom also thought it was a good way for Vani and me to practice our French.

I giggled when she told me, and said I wouldn't get pregnant. I thought she was kidding around. She was studying Social Work in France and worked with teenage moms. Then she brought it up three more times that night. And each time it was as if she were bringing it up for the first time. I'd tell her and she'd laugh it off as if it was nothing. I didn't think it was nothing. It wasn't like her.

After dinner, we all sat outside on the porch having dessert. The stars were out and the weather was perfect.

Nalina said she had a lot of studying to do when she got back to France. It was her final year of university. But she had an ace up her sleeve. Uncle Francois said she was using this pill called Rémoire to help her study.

"Une pilule miraculeuse!" he said. A miracle pill.

Helped people with memory loss, helped students study, helped people lose weight, helped people gain weight, boosted strength, and on he went.

Nalina told us she had aced all her exams thanks to the pill and was going to use it to help her write her thesis.

Mom said studying the old-fashioned way was the only way to "ace" exams. Then she and Aunty Selvi got into an argument about it.

My poor Nalina. I miss your attempts to speak Creole. I miss you. Ma belle Naina. Tu me manques trop.