Abiding Hope

Growing up on a farm in South Africa, I have been exposed to the textured beauty and hardships of the African people. When I was a toddler, my favorite place to be, was on the back of a Zulu lady named Gertrude. My mom speaks about how I came into the kitchen in the mornings with sleepy eyes, until I spotted Gertrude. Her presence cleared my mind in an instant and I ran to her with hands in the air, shouting “Tutu!!”. She would swing me over onto her back and wrap a blanket around both of us, fastening it to her chest and our adventure for the day would begin. I remember Gertrude vaguely - her gapped smile, a lump protruding from her throat and her patient presence.

As I grew older, I learnt to appreciate the musicality of the Zulu families on our farm, as my aunt Dina often facilitated church services in one of their uncomplicated clay houses. I remember how they would spontaneously break out in several harmonies, singing with a boldness and zeal that imprinted an everlasting impression onto my heart. Though their existence was simple, they never seemed to lack anything. They had a joy, that reached beyond the surface into the fibre of their rhythmic beings. The privilege of witnessing their existence as a child, remains a glorious treasure I hold onto dearly to this day.