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That’s all she did, all day, every day. Sit by the stove. She was fantastic and fully with it. She
just couldn’t see and didn’t move.
Koko and my gran would sit and have long conversations, but as a five-year-old I didn’t
think of Koko as a real person. Since her body didn’t move, she was like a brain with a mouth.
Our relationship was nothing but command prompts and replies, like talking to a computer.
“Good morning, Koko.”
“Good morning, Trevor.”
“Koko, did you eat?”
“Yes, Trevor.”
“Koko, I’m going out.”
“Okay, be careful.”
“Bye, Koko.”
“Bye, Trevor.”
—
The fact that I grew up in a world run by women was no accident. Apartheid kept me away
from my father because he was white, but for almost all the kids I knew on my grandmother’s
block in Soweto, apartheid had taken away their fathers as well, just for different reasons.
Their fathers were off working in a mine somewhere, able to come home only during the
holidays. Their fathers had been sent to prison. Their fathers were in exile, fighting for the
cause. Women held the community together. “Wathint’Abafazi Wathint’imbokodo!” was the
chant they would rally to during the freedom struggle. “When you strike a woman, you strike
a rock.” As a nation, we recognized the power of women, but in the home they were expected
to submit and obey.
In Soweto, religion filled the void left by absent men. I used to ask my mom if it was hard
for her to raise me alone without a husband. She’d reply, “Just because I live without a man
doesn’t mean I’ve never had a husband. God is my husband.” For my mom, my aunt, my
grandmother, and all the other women on our street, life centered on faith. Prayer meetings
would rotate houses up and down the block based on the day. These groups were women and
children only. My mom would always ask my uncle Velile to join, and he’d say, “I would join
if there were more men, but I can’t be the only one here.” Then the singing and praying would
start, and that was his cue to leave.
For these prayer meetings, we’d jam ourselves into the tiny living area of the host
family’s house and form a circle. Then we would go around the circle offering prayers. The
grannies would talk about what was happening in their lives. “I’m happy to be here. I had a
good week at work. I got a raise and I wanted to say thank you and praise Jesus.” Sometimes
they’d pull out their Bible and say, “This scripture spoke to me and maybe it will help you.”
Then there would be a bit of song. There was a leather pad called “the beat” that you’d strap
to your palm, like a percussion instrument. Someone would clap along on that, keeping time
while everyone sang, “Masango vulekani singene eJerusalema. Masango vulekani singene
eJerusalema.”
That’s how it would go. Pray, sing, pray. Sing, pray, sing. Sing, sing, sing. Pray, pray, pray.