Dear Mama
My mother died when I was 8 years 11 months and 26 days old. This is always a difficult fact to share about myself. Not for me at least. I am not acutely bruised about the fact that I am an orphan. However, society somewhat has not yet mastered the subtle art of not expressing empty pity for motherless brats like me and not making things awkward after I offer up that information about myself. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear about that’, well, so am I. ‘I mean, you don’t look like it’ is the most hilarious response I have encountered so far. I am yet to learn how we — orphans — are supposed to look like. People always become surprised at how well I’ve thrived in the last 14 years without a matriarch. Believe it or not, it is not easy. My ability to meticulously brace through life’s challenges without a maternal support structure is the perfect picture of the swan effect. Just because I graciously float over the lake does not mean I am not paddling for my life beneath the surface. I may not look like the poster girl for inkedama, but truth is, andina bazali.
Today, I was listening to a podcast, and it sparked something in me that I have never thought about. I have never thought about questions that I have about life which I believe only my mother could answer. I have never grieved over the loss of conversations which were buried with her. The void of her wisdom has never caused me heartache. When you have lived through most of your formative years schooling yourself about life, you somehow become ignorant to the vacuum of counsel that only your mom could fill. Needless to say, this post is all about questions and conversations I wish I could have with my mother. So, if you are like me and cry easily, grab a few tissues. Even the act of typing this piece out is drowning me in tears. So, jaunt with me as I type out this letter to Motshidisi Harriet Khemelete…
Dear mama,
Wow, I never thought that I would ever write a posthumous epistle to you because it never dawned on me that I have unanswered questions and conversations. I think your death disturbed so much that I desensitized myself completely to your past existence. As I type out this letter, I am starkly aware that I have even forgotten how you look. At least Thandi serves as a good reminder of that. She also reminds me of your unrelenting spirit and passionate love. I could never forget the latter two qualities. They somehow remained engraved on my heart. Mama, Thandi looks so much like you, it is ridiculous. I wish you could see the woman that she has become. She is even a mom now. It is difficult without you here to share that joy with her, but she is carrying that with so much elegance. Another quality that she inherited from you. And I so wish you could see the young man that is blossoming in Junior. I become a puddle of tears when I think about him so before I dampen this epistle, let me get straight to the point.
Mama Thandi, I wish you knew about how devastated papa was when you died. Your death slowly devoured him to his early demise: another trauma that left a permanent gaping and gnawing hole in my heart. I can only imagine how confusing it was for him to watch his wife fade away and then be forced to navigate life with three young children and very little emotional safety netting. The more I mature, the more I realize gore papa must have — at some point — suffered from major depression. It is a pity that society makes very little room for our black patriarchs to be vulnerable. ‘Monna ke nku, Ha lle’ is the executioner of many black men in our society and I believe gore papa was on its death row. Chronic disease may have delivered the lethal blow, but no doubt that mental and emotional incapacitation had its fair share of lashes at him. I am not saying this to make you feel guilty. This is simply something I thought you should know. That man really loved you. We all did. We still do.
Mama, ke godile tlhe. The little scrawny, dark-skinned mosquito that used to buzz around the house with unending and exasperating questions has now become a woman. That scares me. The fact and lived reality of you not seeing the fruit of your womb take charge and become her own terrifies me. I think this is one of the reasons that I have delayed having this imagined dialogue with you. I am on the fast lane to becoming a doctor, and a damn good one at that. Nagana! Mankokosane ke mosadi nyana yanong ebile o tlile gonna ngaka. Some might celebrate that future prospect, but it breaks my heart so much. I am going to be numb on the day I walk that stage in my black graduation regalia. I honestly dread that moment. I would trade my entire life to see you in the crowd, cheering me on and beaming with pride. But ke, death be not proud or whatever John Donne said. Excuse my cynicism, mama, but living this life without you has been far more difficult than I’m willing to admit. Your death broke me, mama. What used to be whole is now glued up pieces that are somehow able to carry some water — by God’s grace. Even that sometimes feels insufficient. I am not saying 2 Corinthians 12:9 is a lie. All I’m saying is, I’m sick of plastering pious platitudes over a chasm that seems to be further deepening. Grief can never be healed by quoting some memory verses. ‘No more tears’ is an event that will only happen when He comes back again. So, until then, I will not necessarily dwell at the foot of my mourning, but I will mourn at the feet of my Jesus.
Ah yes, Jesus. MaKhemelete, thank you for that. Thank you for introducing us to the Well that will never run dry. Thank you for acquainting us with the Friend that sticks closer than a brother. Ye, we may have been naïve to His power when you coerced us to go to church, but you planted a seed that has now birthed the only thing that is keeping me alive: a relationship with Jesus Christ. Honestly mama, you’re missing out when it comes to my faith walk. It has shifted the trajectory of what used to be a useless excuse of a life but has now become a testimony. For that, kea leboga my love. Thank you very very much. You may have left a hole in my heart, but you dropped a seed in it, and I get to enjoy its fruit.
I could go on and on, chomi, but this piece is going on to 2000 words now, so I’ll just pose a few questions and wrap this thing up. 1. What was life like for you as a 23-year-old? My twenties currently look like a mess, and it would’ve been interesting to compare and contrast. 2. What was your biggest fear about being a mother of 3? Believe it or not, but I always thought you didn’t like me that much, yet I have no doubt that you did love me. 3. Why did you marry papa? I mean, gent was good-looking sure. Efela, full transparency: I think you settled to the point of compromise there. No shade to papa. 4. What advice would you give me when it comes to love, relationships, and marriage? So far, kunzima in that department. In fact, it’s blank shame. I really desire companionship and it is a journey that I would’ve loved to explore with you. 5. Finally, are you proud of me? I always hear people saying that you are, but that is a quintessential insincerity that I passionately loathe, and no one can objectively say that because I mean — you are still dead. Papa once said that he was proud of me, and I know that it is true. I simply wish I could hear it from you. I do not possess an ignorance to your mortality such that I proclaim statements like “I wish heaven had a telephone so that I can call you”. I mean, for one, I cannot confidently confirm your current location. You could be burning in hell for all I know. Yet, I still yearn for a chat with you. It might not fully satisfy my burden of curiosity, but mama, it would make me feel whole again…I think.
That’s all I have emotional currency to talk about. Maybe, I’ll write a 2nd epistle. Until then, so long ngwetsi ya Basia.
With love,
Mankokosane.
