Touched by a Mosotho angel: And where will YOU be when your mother dies?

At the darkest hour for my family, I saw the Light and the blessings of the ancestors shine through the calm dignity of a domestic helper in Soweto.

We had buried my mother, Nomali Memela, last Saturday. She died at home of natural causes. She was 83 years old.

It being an ordinary Tuesday, this was perhaps the first time that I had visited my home ever since my mother was buried. We have lived there most of our lives and had to face her absence through death for the very first time.

My mother was neither the first nor the last person to die, at least, in our family. But we must all understand that this was the one and only woman who had, literally, been the heart and soul of the family. She was the spiritual glue that held the family, children, grandchildren and community together.

Some of those who knew and loved her think that we have lost everything with her death. For those souls, life no longer has any meaning.

Moving among those relatives and friends, one gets the sense that their faith has been shaken and their souls are weighted down by anguish and bitterness.

But I saw the Light and heard ancestral blessings shine through the unexpected strength and inspiration of a quiet, humble and self-effacing Mosotho woman called Matebogo Molatela.

Like an angel, she has inspired those of us with eyes to see to look at the bright side of life.

You see, Matebogo is an ordinary and simple woman who has worked for my mother as a domestic helper. She has been an aide, comforter, friend and confidante for the past couple of years, especially the past few weeks when my mother’s health took a turn for the worst.

In fact, if there is any person who understood my mother’s pleas for help and guidance, it must be Matebogo. Indeed, she was in a challenging situation to stay beside an aged woman day and night during her last days on Earth.

In a moment of silence, I was inspired by the resilience of this powerful woman who had lived with my mother as her domestic helper and attendant until her last hours on Easter Sunday.

For the past few years, Matebogo had left her motherland, family, friends and relatives in Masiteng, Lesotho, to share and be part of our family life, especially our mother’s.

While some of us were busy chasing dreams of wealth, fame and “happiness”, Matebogo is the one who shared every moment of her life with our Nomali. Perhaps she is the one who should have been profoundly touched by the death of the aged woman who gave her a job and pay, and who gave her life meaning.

But during the past 10 days of our family bereavement and loss, she has not walked up to me or anybody to beg: “Please help me. Tell me what to do. What is going to happen to me?”

This is a woman who, as a domestic helper, reminds me of the spirit of my own mother, who was a domestic helper herself.

Here she was, facing one of life’s most difficult problems. But she was still on her feet, perhaps with nobody offering her comforting words to help her cope with death.

We have not been able to offer her anything tangible, except to exchange niceties and smiles.

However, there is no doubt in my mind that she is one of those people who believe that to manage bereavement or death, we can only make our way through and beyond loss by taking up our life again. You have got to do what you have got to do. Death cannot stop life.

Watching her carry on with the drudgery of her life, we have to learn, again and again, that when death strikes in the heart of the family, we must stop pitying ourselves. Nobody should ask: Why me?

Instead, her sorrow, pain and loss have not been conquered by bitterness and resentment. She seems to have accepted that death is a part of life as much as life is incomplete without death.

Thus, as the first person to know when my mother died, she simply turned away from the tragic news as from a closed door. In my mind, I called it denial or callousness. Yet it was spiritual resilience and inner strength.

Of course, some of us had broken down to weep and wail over the passing-on of a very solid woman who had given birth to nine children while raising a whole township generation. But as we lost our heads and hearts around her, Matebogo simply turned her energies to taking up her daily activities again.

She cooked food. She went to the spaza shops to buy essentials. She cleaned the house. She switched off the television and radio. She answered the telephone and answered inquiries from family and relatives. She welcomed and smiled at family, friends and relatives from the community who came to comfort us. She lived her life.

It was only when I walked into our home for the first time since my mother had been buried, with the mourning crowds gone, that I realised that Matebogo was not just coping with the problem. Instead, she was carrying on with the business of living.

Of course, death will continue to strike cruelly in every direction. Matebogo has taught us how to manage bereavement and death.

It is only when we pause to look at lowly, hard-working people like Matebogo that we learn how to bear up under the burden of grief.

Suddenly, I have remembered that this woman left her motherland and family in Lesotho to tend to the needs of my aged mother while we were too busy chasing wealth, fame and “happiness”.

She is the story of millions of other brave women — just like my mother — who are just living a life. In fact, these women that we pejoratively call tea girls, maids and domestic helpers are our angels on Earth. They are the light keepers in every relatively well-to-do home.

When my mother died, Matebogo should have been overcome by grief. But day after day, she has tended to the light … showing those who care to see that you leave the dead to bury the dead. She was there with our mother as she ran the race and completed it.

Matebogo understands that we can only conquer bereavement, death and loss by doing what we have to do every day: tend to the sick, feed the hungry, wash the dying, comfort the afflicted, clean the shelter and … keep on keeping at the darkest hour.

My mother, Nomali, whom we buried last Saturday, was a domestic helper and tea girl …just like Matebogo, who is, of course, an angel to serve us on Earth.

We have been touched by an angel named Matebogo Molatela who comes from Masiteng in Lesotho. When you see her in the street or taxi, you may not recognise her.