I remember my grandmother fondly: what she said, her logic, and her temperament linked to a zero-tolerance for nonsense. I remember that nobody argued with her. I can picture the intensity of her stare and the decisiveness that followed. I remember her steadfast beliefs and her teachings: a mix of scripture and some original mottos that were simple strokes of genius. I can recall how dedicated she was to prayer and how often she prayed. She was committed to serving and being of service to those who were less fortunate. I remember my Gogo, but not in any particular order. My memories are random, quick and potent; they flood through me almost daily.
I feel like, in dying, she meant more to me than when she lived. There is possibly something that lies within our identity that is intricately linked to the ones who birthed our parents. We lose the connection when we can no longer physically touch or embrace them, or merely be in their midst.
The last time I hugged my Gogo, I knew it was the last time. Pretending to have left something behind, I walked back to her seated on a wheelchair unable to walk us out, and for a split second, a rare moment, we were alone. I spoke out loud ‘Sala Kahle Gogo, I love you!’, the latter words rarely having passed my lips. I knew I loved her and yet, I hardly said it aloud. That moment was my last chance.
Days later, she passed, her death becoming what has been possibly my biggest personal cosmic shift. This bold realisation that I state so easily today wasn’t immediate. I have grown to come to terms with it over the year. It is strange that I would be so impacted by her death, as I cannot boast about having been the most endeared and coveted grandchild. I existed amongst the grandchildren within the harmony that our gatherings and visits facilitated. As I grew older, I didn’t seek her audience. In her presence, I tended to sit back rather than ask for her guidance. I avoided her perceptive seeing of us and her endless questioning of our behaviours and fashion statements. She amused me, and provided tales that I now relay and find humour in.
Thinking back, I realise that I also avoided telling her what I was thinking about or planning. The family network would ensure that my news got to her and she could relay a message back to me. Once in a while, I would phone her and we would exchange pleasantries and a few worthy shares – nothing that would raise concerns – and the conversations would quickly draw to a close. Still, I sent a Christmas present religiously, and come to think of it, the spirited sentiments I have of the festive season are more hers than mine. As I grow older, I am seeing more of my own cynicism about this season.
Even for her visit to my home, newly married and living in Joburg, I wasn’t there, possibly due to a work commitment. She came, walked through the house, had a cup of tea, prayed for the wellbeing of my family and home, and left. I didn't feel awkward; it worked. She had wanted to come for some time and it wasn't about me, but about the blessing and her prayer over my new life.
What startled and continues to touch me deeply is that, a few nights before she passed, her presence in my dream, with her instructive code, was the first pull on my reins. Initially, it felt like I was being singled out, that she was preparing me before the others. She let me in on what was yet to unfold. I felt intimately connected to her, not teary, not distraught, but almost ready for the major transition that would unfold. Then, at her funeral or in the days leading up to the funeral, I found myself assigned to see to the endless tasks and logistics. It felt like I was bestowed with a certain type of honour. Nothing mattered more to me than my being there, whether I believed it was necessary or not. I rose every morning and dutifully followed the instructions and guidelines of what needed to be done to get Gogo Simelane uLaNkoyane to her final resting place. It was the closest I would ever get to her in this realm. It's only years later that I note the great rift or gaping hole that remains unfilled within me. I hang onto her living memory as a guide and survival tool.
I believe that my grandmother's family, her parents or even her grandparents, were missionaries. I don't know why I believe this, could she have told me this? Alternatively, there is merely an association that I have created in my head. I like this version of her history and I hope it is correct. Her belief in the word of God and her scripture reference was unparalleled for me. I also think her teachings, or what I now refer to as her timeless pieces of advice, were profound. They are the reason why I am motivated to write about her and to remember her beyond being sentimental. She has created a memoir – so vivid and profound – that is etched in my heart. Just as the Messiah was sent to earth to give a message, Gogo shared with us her wisdom and experience. Those who knew her, worked with her, served alongside her, loved and cared for her will know what she imparted and the impact of her words and deeds.
I never stop thinking of her and I know that, as a family, we never stop imagining or sharing what she would have said or advised about the many turns of events we have ushered ourselves through.
So, tomorrow I will pull out my Christmas tree even though the spirit of Christmas is taking its time to reach me. I will say a prayer blessing my home and wishing that the ungratefulness we often express does not find a permanent place in it. I will whisper my prayer request to her; she is the equivalent of Santa in my books. I will shed a tear or two because of the burden of responsibility I carry and attribute to those determined, well-serving, hardworking genes she passed on. I won't complain, as somehow, I feel it is one of the things she didn't approve of. I will smile, looking up to the heavens and thanking her for the fact that her life on earth was a true testimony of how the Lord never tires of guiding me along the path of life, even though I keep veering off. I will remain hopeful, holding onto her loving memory and wishing she could be here for Christmas.
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