A mother of two nations

I was feeling black and blue on Mother’s Day because I am, now, motherless.

My mother, Nomali, is dead.

For the first time in many years, I spent Mother’s Day without her. My soul felt so empty that I could not even bring myself to take flowers to her fresh grave. She was buried six weeks ago.

You see, my mother was a solid woman of substance, strong and resilient. Like a million of other African mothers, aunts and sisters, Nomali had given her life to make this country work by strengthening the family unit. We must remind ourselves that the family is the cornerstone of our civilisation, if you like.

In fact, when you really think about it, you will see that Nomali was a mother of two nations: one white and privileged, the other black and aspirational. Throughout her life, she was the glue that held a house divided against itself together because of racism. But her job was to make it easier for the white and privileged family to live in comfort, convenience and security.

Day after day, ever since she was 18 years old in 1942, with the Second World War was raging, she hand washed dirty clothes and made them clean for the white and privileged family. They paid her five pounds a month for her self–sacrifice.

She would wake up at 4am from her home in Diepkloof township, leaving her black and aspirational family behind, to live up to the expectations of her bosses. Of course, she looked after and played with the children, comforted them when they hurt and fed them when hungry.

But she was an inside outsider who was not allowed to be part of this white and privileged family that she gave so much to. At least, not fully.

In fact, she was not allowed to socialize with these people — they didn’t invite her to their parties, weddings and graduation ceremonies, except to serve. She was, in apartheid jargon, called a ‘girl.’

My mother was forced to quit school in Standard five because of financial problems. “My ambition was to be a nurse,” she once told me with an air of self–resignation. She was a pupil at St Michaels on 8th Avenue in Alexandra township when my grandmother, Nongqabase advised her to go seek work. “She was a single mother and could not provide everything that the privileged had,” my mother explained.

There were six siblings — Leeuw, Eyes, Ntsiki, Lawukazi and Punana. They have all, including my mother, passed on now.

The plight of the black and disadvantaged family is what taught my mother to be self–responsible. Thus at an early age, she learnt that you need to take life in your stride and make the best of what it had to offer.

You need to understand that my mother was not an apartheid victim. She was a woman and mother who understood that it does not matter where you come from or what colour you are. To my mother, all that you needed to understand is that the rules of success do not change. “You have to work hard to get what you want,” she insisted.

Ironically, she regarded her job to be a domestic attendant — what they called a ‘girl’ in apartheid — a blessing. I was taken aback to learn that she did not regard herself as “oppressed and exploited.” Instead, she prided herself in working for the Matthews family, whose white male head was chief magistrate in Johannesburg for 20 years.

My mother was devastated when he was moved to Springs. She could not move with them. “They treated me very well. I have nothing bad to say about them. In fact, I was very happy that I was the one who did everything for the family,” she told me one day.

But that was her white and privileged family. Her real home was a matchbox house in Diepkloof. She moved there in 1960 as a result of forced mass removals which were an attempt to make the area whites–only.

It was in Diepkloof that my mother spent her ‘other life’ with my father, Willard Mbokodo, who was father to her children. My mother straddled two worlds, spending life with my father, living with us in our overcrowded home. It was here that she taught us to “just get along with life.”

Today, we the children of this solid woman of substance called Nomali have grown to be adults who believe in taking responsibility for everything that happens to us. “My greatest blessing has been my husband and my two families, especially the children,” she told me with pride.

People in the community had grown to love and respect her, greatly. In fact, they turned out in big crowds to bury her not too long ago. I was touched by how much the community looked up to her as an unsung hero. She had allowed the people to be part of her life as much as she was part of their lives.

“Gogo Nomali,” is what they fondly called her in the twilight of her years. I would find her sitting in her kitchen and join her for a stiff drink of whisky or just to watch her favourite television soapies which were The Bold & The Beautiful and Generations, particularly. She would speak of her life of survival under apartheid as a matter of fact, the same way we now talk about Aids, economic inequality or how Nelson Mandela is a forgotten hero, now.

To my mother, her work was life.

After the Matthews family left, she was recommended and transferred to work as a tea–girl in the factories of Johannesburg. She worked for Newlands Dress and Nevada Clothing until she was forced into retirement when she turned 70. “I was still strong in 1995 when the unions insisted that I take pension. They did not have my interest at heart as there is very little to do in the bleak townships,” she told me.

But this 1995 was an important year in her life. The family had planned a big birthday bash to celebrate her life and its contours. Unfortunately, it was the year her husband, Mbokodo died of natural causes. “He was the heart and soul of my life,” she told me, fondly caressing her wedding ring.

One day I asked my mother what she remembered most about her working life. She smiled and talked fondly about a fellow washer woman, Emily Nokwe, with whom she worked at the Fairlands Hotel doing laundry.

She used her meagre wages to educate her son, Duma Nokwe who later became the first African advocate. He was Thabo Mbeki’s role model and mentor. “This is what only a wise African mother would do, to give the best education to her children,” she said.

Nomali herself emulated Mrs Nokwe. She, too, has been able to produce four university graduates, a parastatal CEO, an army general, a banking manager and a writer.

Signficantly, another daughter is a domestic attendant in The Presidency. “I have raised you, children, to make the best of your lives. You have no business to blame anybody for your own failures,” she told me.

With the transition of 1994, some of her children migrated to the previous whites–only suburbs. When she was invited to come along, my mother refused to leave the township which has been her home since 1960.

“This is where my soul is. This is the only place where I am prepared to live and die,” she told everyone. The ancestors granted her wishes. She died at home, the same house my father passed on in 1995.

My mother, like millions other African women and mothers, was a simple domestic attendant. She was not a household name and will not have a statue build in her honour. But South Africa needs to perhaps build one in memory of all these mothers of two nations: one white and privileged and the other black and aspirational.

Some of those who knew my mother will always remember her as a solid woman of substance who epitomized the resilience and triumph of the human spirit. For what it was worth, she was proud to have participated in the 1956 Women’s March to Pretoria.

“Looking back, I think women have always been at the cutting edge of the struggle. Now that we are free, nobody should forget what women have done to make this country what it is,” she said to me.

In her old age, she could not tell what had happened to the Matthews house in the suburbs. But she managed to transform her matchbox house into a little township mansion with relative trappings of the good life: DStv, fridge, music stereo, telephone, electricity and extra rooms. Thus she enjoyed hosting neighbourhood friends to watch Supersport channel, for instance.

In the twilight of her years, she complained that her eyes were troubling her. But she continued to read newspapers to keep abreast with political developments. “I find the in–fighting in the ruling ANC very disturbing. We need to focus on improving the lives of the people so we have something to show after the first two decades of freedom and democracy. Freedom needs to be tangible, too, with material well being,” she told me.

Her walkabout in the neighbourhood had become a slower pace before she died. She missed getting down to a stokvel or shebeen to engage in political deliberations. There was the arthritis, diabetes and all the other illnesses that come with age.

But one day at 83, she suddenly withered and somehow knew that the end of the road was nigh.“I have lived a long life. I am blessed that I had my family. There is no regret in my heart,” she told me.

By the time she died on Easter Sunday, my mother was aware that most of her friends, the women and men and some of the children she arrived with in Diepkloof were gone. She missed them terribly.

“Yes, life is good. I am glad to have met and known all the people that I got to know in my time. Always remember: life is work and work is a blessing.”

For the first time, I spent Mother’s Day motherless.

But, just like many other people, I am glad Nomali was part of life in Africa. Just like millions of other African mothers, she was a mother to two nations that are slowly coming together.