Art by Mary Sibande. More at https://ruxandrabp.wordpress.com/2011/11/25/mary-sibande-dressed-to-tell-south-africas-tale/
The African Goddess lives. She can be found in townships, cities, squatter camps, rural settlements, shopping malls and in mansions where she mostly works, rarely lives. Her place is her palace. Her crown traditionally a water pot or basket, most often a doek.
You may miss her in a crowd. She is modest. But you will know her by the way her eyes smile at any child in her vicinity. She is patient, waiting for a taxi, bus or train. You may glimpse her on your way back from Sun City at 3am in the morning, waiting in the cold for transport to get to work many miles away. She is grateful to clean and scrub for the sake of her family.
She is used to waiting. Waiting for her husband to be home from the mines at Christmas. You will find her toyi-toying in the streets for justice, water, food, opportunity for her children. She sits in group discussions with marketing people talking about the difficulties of keeping herself and her babies clean without running water in her home. Without money for sanitary products, toilet paper and nappies. She is attends stokvel meetings with women who collectively save for a rainy day, when they support each other through weddings and funerals. She lifts her glorious voice in gospel choirs to praise the Ineffable Presence.
She is wise with an archaic African wisdom that is beyond what a school can offer. Her wisdom is dedicated to the teachings of her ancestors and to the earth that received her placenta in ceremonial burying, waiting for her body when she is ready to join those who came before. Her blood runs with generous love and service to bring home the distant pale skinned ancestors who endured the ice. She calls them to come home from brash overindulgence and share their knowledge of preparing for the extreme winters she has never known.
The courageous find Her joy in Life dancing in their very own DNA.
Come, for the beer is brewed
And the night is chill.
Close the door to the ghosts
To the spirits of the night.
Let the leopard cough among the rocks
He is alone and hungry
But we are warm and company is good
And there is a story to be told.
Anonymous verse from Myths and Legends of Southern Africa by Penny Miller.
