A Tribute to the Woman Who Shaped Me
Yesterday was the 19th December. A fairly innocuous day for most people, nothing special has ever happened on this day. But to me, something of immense importance happened. Yesterday marked the birth of my grandmother. She was one the most influential forces in my life, probably the person who has shaped my worldview the most. You only need to know who she was to understand. She really was a titan.
She was born Ntombizodwa. Ntombizodwa is Xhosa for only girls. In Xhosa culture our names have meaning. Hers meant “we only have girls”. Her name was her parent’s celebrations of her existence. At that point, they had only had girls. Her parents would later have boys as well, but they also bowed at her feet. She later became the matriarch of the family and the keeper of our family’s culture and history. In a society that prized males over females, this may seem impossible. But my great-grandparents would never care about such nonsense. They are often quoted as saying: “Andinamsebenzi mazi, andinamsebenzi kunzi”. This means I don’t have work for females and I don’t have work for males. My great grandparents didn’t see a point in categorizing work by gender. Maybe this is due to having girls only at first, or they were progressive, I haven’t got the foggiest clue. What mattered was what you brought to the table and what you were able to do? These feelings and thoughts were then passed down to my grandmother and her to her daughter and finally my generation. I thought this was something passed down in all families. In this regard, I have been blessed to be born to my family.
Her life was lived fearlessly, proudly and with an indomitable spirit. If there was a stereotype, she tried to break it. In her 20’s she moved from a small town in the Eastern Cape to Cape Town. This was a challenge, given that at that time, black people had very narrow future prospects and freedom of movement. But she chose to do the brave thing. She brought down her younger sister, but that is another story. South African history has not always been kind to black people. Worse if you were a girl. Then you had an even harder time. Then most choices were unavailable to you. My grandmother was like “to hell with that”, I will do as I please. I loved that about her. So at a time when black movement was restricted, and women were marginalised, she left home and went to Cape Town. I have often overlooked how much courage that took.
She ended up settling in Gugulethu in the native yards (yes that what they were called, to this day there is still NYs). The town planners didn’t even care to give the streets names when they dumped all black people(natives) into the townships, that was in the ’60s by the way. Conditions were squalid, but we made do. Our house was at the intersection of two major roads and that meant all roads led to her house, just like she liked it. Gramps took that as she had to feed and take care of everyone. Many Sundays would end with various members of the congregation coming to lunch and maybe even staying for dinner. And if anyone ever came knocking or even mentioned being hungry, Gramps was there. She was also the ear, shoulder or foot for anyone that needed it.
Cape Town saw her become a nurse and later also a bootlegger of umqombothi. Umqombothi is a traditional African beer made of sorghum, it is most typically drank at ceremonies but can be enjoyed at any time. Nearly every African culture has a version of it under another name. She made and sold this alcohol in District 6, before the forced removals of 1968. This was an exciting time for her. As an accomplished dancer, she would still be dancing circles around me at 64 She spent her time winning dance contests, running from the police and brewing her umqombothi. She even had a burn on her leg, where she accidentally knocked over a pot boiling hot brew, during a police raid. The forced removals were the end of an era for her. How I wish I had known her back then when she was in her prime. She really was the most amazing person I have ever met.
She was scary strong. You don’t grow up like she did, without being hella strong and having an iron will. That was my grandmother. She taught me what a woman was. I could never imagine anyone daring to do anything she didn’t want. There are stories about men kidnapping.women and making them their brides. Not my grandmother, that man would wake up missing. Men who tried to push her down, to make themselves feel better, would regret it instantly. My grandmother would never dull her own shine to let some man feel like a man. I like to think I am who I am in a large part because of who she was. She was married three times to my knowledge. When one of her husbands went crazy and tried to knock her off her pedestal, he soon found himself without a home. She did not take nonsense and I loved her for it. Her children loved her for it.
Ntombizodwa brought up three sons and 1 daughter. She lost two at birth but kept going. They always came back to her for advice and encouragement, long after they had reached adulthood. They are all strong, determined and great in their own ways. They may make mistakes but live according to her tenets as best they can to this day. Because while she firmly believed in spare the rod, spoil the child, all her children felt loved, their children doubly so. One of my clearest memories is watching her beat up 5 grown ass men. They had gotten drunk and started trying to kick in our garage door. This did not sit well with her so she went outside to have a chat with them. They respected the house after that. She once bumped into my uncles smoking once. Rather than have her see them smoking, one had squished the lit cigarette in their fist, the other had swallowed the cigarette. That was when she was in her 50.
It’s been 10 years since she died. Her death is the part of her story I hate to speak about the most. Not because she died, the reaper is waiting for us all. What I hate is how she died. No, she didn’t die in some horrific accident or fight. Nothing like that. She died of a stroke. Which is even worse. This woman who had built families. This woman who had changed the landscape where she walked or touched. (Seriously I once woke up and she had moved an entire fully grown fig tree from the front yard to the back, overnight alone.) She suffered from insomnia in her 60s. This woman (she would kill me if she heard me call her that, by the way) who had made men cower at her feet. Who had stared racist police in the face and said: I WILL GO WHERE I WANT, and I will dance while bringing booze” This woman who had fed the community while keeping the young in line. How could she die of a stroke? An ailment that makes parts of your body unable to move, her death did not become her. But that is not my biggest regret.
My greatest regret is because of the last time I saw her. She was in a wheelchair. I had disobeyed her and gone somewhere she didn’t trust. When I came back she was in the hospital, the stroke had hit her during the week I was gone. The last time I saw her, she was in a wheelchair and couldn’t speak or move properly. That had always been her living nightmare. She never wanted to be helpless. And I feel guilty, for having seen her in that position. I feel as if I betrayed her. I still remember the look she had in her eyes that day…
Lately, I have been thinking about her a lot. She has been in my dreams and waking moments. Maybe she was just passing by or even better maybe she just qualified to be an ancestor and is now again taking up her role as protector of the family. It has been 10 years after all. (disclaimer: I’m not sure if that is how it works, but it’s a good story.) It would definitely be like her to pass the test and then come over to say: “I got you”. As I sit between the horns of a dilemma, I wish she was here to show me the way. There have been so many decisions, I have needed her for. The thought that she’s got me is comforting, I hope she likes what she sees.
I never write about my family like this. But writing is what I do, and this is the tribute. She was spectacular and has lived in my family’s and community’s memory, now I hope she will also reside in yours.