REMEMBERING

Liz Jenson is determined to uphold her son's legacy

- LIZ JENSON

I’m in an airport bar in Houston, Texas, and I’m falling apart. Three hours ago, I was in a rented apartment, researching a story I was working on. But now, suddenly, unthinkably, I’m on my way to South Africa, and I need a drink, urgently.

When the barman hands me my glass of Shiraz I fumble and drop it. It shatters on the floor and everyone looks at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say as he mops up the red stain. ‘My son just died.’

Back behind the bar, he pours me another glass and slides it over to me with a look of such gentleness I feel the tears welling up. ‘He’s called Raphael,’ I tell him, unable to use the past tense. ‘He’s 25. He’s a wildlife biologist and environmental activist. He’s on a physical training course, preparing for a documentary he’s making about poaching. He was running in a group. Then he collapsed. And they couldn’t save him.’

At 25, Raphael was in better shape than he’d ever been. How could someone so bursting with health, charisma, joy and plans just stop existing?

FINDING THE WORDS

Writing is how I make sense of things, so on the 27-hour journey to Johannesburg, I began a long letter to Raph, which at some point morphed into a letter from Raph to those he’d left behind, and three years later would morph again, into a book. To this day, I still don’t know which of us wrote what. It was as if the two of us, in some dimension of consciousness, had merged.

On the stopover in Dubai, I wrote a mass mail to break the news to those who loved him, with the terrible request that they pass it on. After that, words failed me.