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REST IN POWER MAMA

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I was cooking when news of her passing began coming through. I checked on the rice and grabbed my phone to scroll through Twitter, terrible force of habit, and I saw the first tweet with her photo and the heartbreak emoticon. I was confused and presumed her illness had taken a turn for the worse.


So I went onto Instagram and saw more of the same; people flooding the timeline with photos of Mama Winnie with captions speaking directly to the undeniable impact she made on the world.
I checked on my rice again but this time I was pensive, I suspected what Facebook would confirm. When I checked on my phone again I went onto my Facebook profile and saw RIP and in a quiet, almost imperceptible way I felt my heart break.


It broke in the way you mourn when you lose something you never thought you’d be without. Like if the sun stopped shining, you don’t know how the sun works, you don’t know how hot it actually is, you don’t know how big it is or how many people it has cheered up just to feel it on their skin.


You cannot begin to comprehend what the impact of the sun is, but all you do know is that you cannot imagine your life without it shining down on you. So my heartache sprang from there – the all encompassing pain of an abstract person who made a direct impact in your life and showed you exactly how long life is as a woman.


Due to the magnitude of Mama Winnie’s personhood and legacy I had forgotten I had ever had the pleasure of meeting her.
I was a young still studying journalist, I had moved to Johannesburg for an internship at Soul Magazine and I was about two months in when Pusetso (another intern) and I were given an assignment to attend that evening. The event was at a celebrity’s house, I think she worked on the eTV soapie Scandal and she had invited the media to her engagement party.


Pusetso and I got unbelievably lost, at some point we drove right up to the gate of a prison! Eventually we found our way and perhaps an hour after our arrival Mama Winnie arrived. I knew I had to shake her hand; I had to get close to her. After I had worked up the nerve, with a shaky voice and hand outstretched I said “Good evening Mama my name is Nontobeko Tshabalala and it is an honour to be in your presence,” she looked at me almost distributing her sight between peering over her glasses and right through the lens then she pulled my outstretched hand and hugged me. Then, in a deep and rich voice, she said she was happy to meet Pusetso and me “because young women are going to write and tell the stories that become our history”. My heart was in my throat and my face was hot.
Had she just given me an instruction? Could I in any way hope to fulfil it?


I’m not even a journalist yet, what if I’m no good?
OHMIGOD MAMAWINNIEKNOWSWHOIAM! 

 

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