Book of South African - Book of Women - Mail & Guardian

that the hospital had to be fairly close to their
intended destination; after all, Johannesburg
was in the Transvaal, right? Not. Of course they
would learn, upon arriving at the training college
in the middle of nowhere, that they were
very far from the City of Gold. Nevertheless, it
is here that she met my father, a tennis-playing
local businessman. They had me after a few
months of romance; my brother followed two
years later.
III. The Nurse
The earliest memory I have of my mother is
of her in a nurse’s uniform. She is wearing a
knee-length white dress, brown stockings
and brown shoes with thick soles. Her white
nurse’s cap sits curiously perched on her neatly
combed Afro hair and it will stay like that
until she returns home in the late afternoon.
The red epaulets with their colourful brass
buttons — which, I would learn much later,
represent a specific qualification: midwifery,
primary health care — break the sterility of
the white uniform. On chilly days she puts on a
navy-blue jersey. She always carries a brown or
black handbag on her right shoulder.
My mother leaves us in the care of our
grandmother, her mother, and makes her way
to the hospital, which is some distance away
but visible from our house. Her strides are fast
— tap, tap, tap — her body upright; there’s an
air of assurance in her walk, her posture. She
is beautiful, slim and fair, to my young self’s
mind exactly the way a nurse should look. The
greatest knowledge I have is that this beautiful
woman is my mother and I’m proud.
My mother still practises as a nurse, specifically
looking after TB and HIV/Aids patients in
the Nkomazi District. Despite the frustrations
she approaches her work with the same vigour
she did many years ago. Helping others is truly
her calling; I don’t see her doing anything else.
IV. The Single Parent
My parents separated for a few years soon after
my brother was born. We went to stay with my
maternal grandmother and my mother’s two
younger brothers. I only have fond memories
of my childhood days in Madadeni, a lively
township outside Newcastle.
My parents were reunited after bumping
into each other at a mutual friend’s wedding.
Without wasting time it was decided that the
“family order” had to be restored — mother
duck and her ducklings had to return to father
duck. Within months we left KZN for sunny
Mpumalanga — my 10-year-old self kicking
and screaming, my universe shattered, and
my poor mother assuring me that we were
going to be fine, that our father loved us so
Book of South AfrICAn women 2012 121