I am who I am because of other women

I have a strong memory of myself as a primary scholar, yelling across the school fence for my older cousin, Sis’ Hazel. We stayed together at my grandmother’s house, which was conveniently across the road from the modest primary in Tembisa township, east of Johannesburg.

Sis’ Hazel,  bless her soul, was a big-boned woman and a gentle, quiet soul. For whatever reason, she always indulged my yelling with whatever I wanted, whether it was coins for the tuck shop or treats from the house.

Most of the attention-seeking was a way for me to up my popularity ranking at school, as the kid who could yell home where my genie in a bottle was ready to oblige.

I was surrounded with coddling by my older cousins, aunts and larger-than-life grandmother. So much so that I didn’t realise, until much later in life, that my mother wasn’t always there. She lived somewhere else entirely for a portion of my early years.

While my mom was going through a divorce at the time, my entire family rallied around me – especially the women. They took turns to ensure I didn’t want for any love and nurture.

They somehow even made my mom’s fortnightly visits seem normal and – dare I say – sweeter. Her visits were always a jovial time, filled with laughter and chatter, around the coal stove in my grandmother’s kitchen.

This time spent living at my grandmother’s house was soon replaced by another warm, loving, although much stricter upbringing at my mom’s older sister, Mamkhulu Nobantu’s house.

Here I learnt a lot about chores, discipline and routine. When I think about my peculiar need for structure and order in my life, I think that it came from the time spend living with my aunt. It wasn’t long until I was reunited with my mother to spend my teenage years living with her.

If I could capture a portrait of the woman in my life, she would have the face of my maternal grandmother (the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met) and guardian angel. When you look closer at the portrait, you’d see mini portraits with faces of other women who played a significant role in shaping the woman I am today.

The portraits stitched together by the very thread that makes women magical when we come to build something meaningful – even if it’s a young girl’s self-esteem.

My childhood could have gone in many other directions. It could have been a Cinderella fairytale, without the fairy godmother and definitely without the charming prince later in life. It was no walk in the park, most days.

But it was the most enriching experience. Not many girls could claim that they were raised by a community of women. This girl hasn’t turned out too badly – Sis’ Hazel would be proud!

*This article was initially written for The Change Exchange blog