I want to begin by saying how fully aware I am that today is not a day that everyone likes to or gets to celebrate. I am aware that some have lost moms and some have difficult and nuanced relationships with their mothers. As we celebrate and remember the women in our lives, I hope my story makes you look back and smile or look forward and hope.
Mother
As a child, my mother was the sun. There was no one more beautiful, no one better dressed and no one more poised. In her grace, she was no less brave and fierce- I felt completely safe with her, and the lack of an (older) male presence never made us feel vulnerable. She was quiet but present, present but not overbearing; she let us play and laugh and scream and sing and dance, but always kept an eye on us. Although my mother had a full-time job as a teacher and had to play both mom & dad, I never felt neglected or forgotten. Sharing her attention with 6 others and a nephew was difficult, so I occasionally found myself packing my "bags" (to solicit attention) and marching off to the top of our street, where I would spend hours waiting for her to come and beg me to return home. She, fully understanding what it was all about- would then spend the rest of the day attending to my thirsty heart.
My mom enjoys watching us more than anything, it's overwhelming but weirdly comforting- she will call you every hour on the hour if you aren’t back by when you said you would be. She’ll come into your room to check in on you if she hasn’t seen you in a few hours and will follow you around the house- if you are on the phone with one of her other kids until she gets a turn to say hello.
One of our favourite stories to share (with each other) is about the day we thought my then 7 or 8-year-old brother had gone missing. Khethiwe, Andile & I were home but hadn't noticed that our little brother wasn't. We jumped straight into our regular after-school routine of washing uniforms, finishing homework, and tidying up. By the time my mom got home, we were busy taking turns playing Tetris (or maybe SuperMario). Within a few minutes of being home, my mother, however, could already tell something was wrong. She asked us where S'cebi was, which we responded to with silence and shock. Our first thought was to check our neighbour's house as S'cebi was fully in love with the teenage girl next door and spent most of his time over there (brushing her hair) but nothing. We checked his best friend's house, nothing. We called his lift club driver, who informed us that S'cebi had insisted on staying at school. Panic ensued. We finally called our (detective) Uncle whilst my mom began her hunt for her last born baby.
My mom's search wasn't normal or sensible. She literally lost her mind. Tears running down her face, she began screaming my brother's name whilst vigorously looking for him in the cupboards, under the beds, behind curtains and up the mango tree. The pinnacle of which was her shaking out his t-shirts as if he would miraculously fall out. This insanity lasted until my uncle arrived and managed to effect some composure. Long story short, S'cebi came prancing in about 2 minutes later without a care in the world- he and his friend had decided to walk home instead!
We love to tease her about this, but she defends herself by reminding us that we are all she has.
Woman
In my adolescence, I always thought my mother to be boring and uptight. All she ever wanted to do was church- at church and at home. All conversations revolved around God and ended with God. She spent a lot of her time praying and reading and was not relatable. I still loved her but she no longer was the star of my movie- I was, and she had faded into a recurring and uninteresting cast member. I still fully depended on her for everything- she was my rock, but I did not see her as anything other than that.
It wasn't until I moved back to Durban and was living in my mom’s house again that my perception of my mother changed. My favourite pass time was looking through her photo albums (and sorting them in chronological order because OCD). I love(d) seeing the younger versions of my beautiful mother, her amazing clothes, her friends, her once beautiful relationship with my father, and mostly love(d) hearing the stories behind the photographs. Stories of struggle and loss, trial, and disappointment. Stories of difficult babies and easy babies, loud-mouth know-it-all children (namely, ME) told from tightly held memories of innocence and dependence.
Being at home, doing nothing much but crying and sleeping for 2 years gave me a chance to know the real her. Know her person and her history. It was through my habitual photo album organising and our regular coffee & wine dates that I learned of my mother’s serial heartbreaks, of her deep familial loss, of subjection to domestic abuse, and her real & tangible past pain. I began to see her wholly, as a strong fusion of hurt, rejection, perseverance, determination, and incomprehensible resilience. She no longer was just a timid, strict and dedicated mother, but she was now a person, with feelings and context and colour and thoughts.
It was through listening to and hearing her stories, that I came to understand how and why her love can run so deep and stretch so wide. How she could raise so many kids and still have the heart to serve others. Instead of letting her losses in family and romantic love temper her ability and capacity to love, she let it fuel her love. She diverted it to those who needed it and most importantly wanted it and as a result, it abounded on her children and those around her, never wasted and never lacking. I have had my fair share of hurts. I have given up on love and friendship and community momentarily as a coping mechanism, but she has shown me how that is not the answer.
Friend
I am the spitting image of my mom, but nowhere close to being as gorgeous. She loved the fact that I wanted to look and be like her so much and I think I may have broken her heart when I traded in my heels for sneakers. But it is now, more than ever, that I see myself in my mom. Not just superficially but in disposition and character. For the first time in my life, we care about and value the same things. We have fostered an open and honest relationship where we can tell each other the truth in love and continue to learn from each other. What I enjoy the most is that as much as I see my mom as more than a mother now, she sees me more than just a daughter. She takes me seriously and values my input and contributions, and we have become the closest of friends. It has been through understanding her background and her story that I have better understood the way we were raised. I have gained some context and an elevated perspective on how that has shaped me. I have a healthier and more authentic reverence for my mother and have developed more patience for her.
My mother's firstborn child is fast approaching 50, and her oldest grandchild is 25 this year- we are so blessed to still have her. I don't think a day goes by where the reality of passing time doesn't garner deep gratitude and immense fear in me. I don't feel like I have spent enough time (as a full, sane, and whole human) with my mother and truly the only reason why I am so desperate to go back to South Africa is to be with her. She is my best thing. I hope that one day I can exhibit a fraction of her constancy, selflessness, and unwavering love.
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