My Woman

I know a bit about women. Actually, I know a bit about a woman – Mama. Synonymous with beauty, spring is known to awaken in her smile; summer sounds through her mouth.

The strength of this woman has more than often clothed my inabilities, insecurities, weaknesses and imperfections with excellence. I am a young man of this stature today because Elizabeth Mokgadi Masiya did not shun the responsibility of being a faithful carrier of this very hand that types this acknowledgement. This woman, head over heels in love with my father, danced to the melody of love to record the steps called Masingita. Oh, but I am just one of the other three miracles that happened in their boat.

To a mother, a woman who sacrificed many experiences so that I today can stand without an inferior complexity or an identity crisis, thank you for firming that hand in discipline; raising that voice in correction; and hugging me in comfort. All this has to do with the fact that I never saw you waver in faith in God. Sure, I heard your sobs and saw your worries, but constantly, you insisted that I look at this Jesus Christ. Today, I have a relationship of my own with God. Jesus Christ knows my address.

I am not afraid of taxis, buses, trains or my feet because I have been on all those forms of transportation on the back of my mother or with my hand in hers. I have passed through the alleys of Marabastad and know the streets of Pretoria because she was confident enough to teach me to walk them. Chores are not just in my vocabulary, but they are activities attended to because Mama was diligent enough to instruct me in that regard. Pots... I don’t want to talk about those. The kitchen becomes a “happy meal” because Masingita has a spatula in hand - she taught me how to tie an apron. She taught me to never fear neither the rising nor setting of any sun. Thus I learned to never fear any man, but to love all.

I have seen the extent to which a man can be loved. I am convicted that a man deserves to be loved. I saw love in all her glory. Love knows me. When all marriages could not be perfect, hers was excellent. The One who brought her and Papa together is perfect and He’s excellent. Because of what she portrayed, there’s a girl reading this blog right now and smiling. She is reading this...

Though I can’t recall my days as an infant in her arms, somehow my heart is assured that I, perhaps with a child-like faith, believed that I could be the height of the beauty in her eye when she would glance at me. The photographs of me in her arms attest to that. Then there are those photos we never took but are living out right now. This book is a part thereof...

THE RIGHT TO MOURN was written with her in mind. It was written to her – a work she could always treasure. My heart is restless because it wants to write to her while she is still alive.

With this brief breath, I honour women. I honour a woman – Mama, My Woman.

-Mzilikazi