Tonight as Kabelo and I lazed around in the living room, I was surprised to rediscover my friend, Makabelo, through the eyes of her daughter. Kabelo is currently in the process of applying for admission to Berea College in America, so tonight we were discussing ideas for her college admissions essay. We shuffled through a number of stories from her childhood, trying to find a vignette to frame her essay. A single theme kept coming up: her mom, Makabelo.
"Okay... I think writing about your mom is a great idea," I encouraged. "Why does she inspire you?" "Well.... It was really hard for her when we were little," Kabelo said, thoughtfully. "Can you tell me about a time when you were little when it was difficult for her? For you and Tumisang?"
Kabelo's head fell back against the couch, searching for a memory. Then she slowly looked up. "Well there were some times when there was no food at home."
I braced myself at the thought. I knew a little about Makabelo's past; the strength it took her to take her two young children and walk away from a physically and emotionally abusive marriage. But I hadn't known this.
"Okay... Tell me about a time when there was no food at home." I said, encouraging Kabelo to find her story.
"After my mom and dad divorced, we (Makabelo, Kabelo, and her little brother, Tumisang) moved to a new place. We rented a room to live in, and Tumisang and I had to leave our good English Medium School and go to a government primary school because there was no money. My mom took a job at a factory to support us. It was really difficult... She would have to pay for transport to get to and from the factory every day."
"One morning, Tumisang and I went to school... We ate lunch there, and we came home after school. We were hungry at home, but there was no food in the house. All I could find were some tea bags and sugar. But we hoped that mom would come home with something to eat."
"When she got home, she didn't say anything but her hands were empty... I remember watching her sit down at the table; she just sat there, staring at the blank blue wall for a long time. Finally, she asked us if we were hungry. We were. Then she told us, there was no food... We didn't have anything for dinner that night. We just all got into bed together and slept hungry. The next morning there was nothing for breakfast either... We had to wait until lunch at school the next day to eat."
Tears trickle down Kabelo's cheeks as she tells me this story.... I start to tear up as well, thinking of Makabelo staring at the blank wall in a one-room house. I can see her so clearly, trying to find a way to tell her children something that no mother should ever be forced to say. I can't imagine her pain, anguish, and sense of failure at that moment.
"My mother is strong." Kabelo whispers. "She made me strong, too."
I nod in agreement. Compared to other young Basotho women her age, Kabelo is mature, kind, and self-assured. Much like her mother, she isn't boisterous, but she doesn't need to be. She has a bearing about her that says she respects herself and doesn't need to shout to be heard. I can't help but think of my own mother and smile, knowing all too well that it takes a strong woman to raise a strong woman.
"I used to be so angry at my father," Kabelo continues. "I didn't understand how he had a good job, with plenty of money, and yet he wastes it while his children are hungry. He would drink and smoke dagha (pot)... It made him sick and crazy." My gut told me that wasn't even half of the story, but still I admired her forgiveness for her father. "My mother had to take care of us. She had to be strong."
As we sat pondering that, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with love for my friend. I know Makabelo is kind, giving, and loving... She's an amazing person. I mean we're friends for a reason, after all. Yet suddenly she seemed extraordinary to me. I looked at Kabelo, applying to University in America.... At Tumisang and Lilly sitting on the carpeted floor playing cards in a beautiful house in Maseru. Lilly, Makabelo's youngest daughter by her second (and incredibly amazing) husband, Rich, has never known what it is to go to bed hungry. In one generation, Makabelo has done something truly extraordinary. Her bravery and courage means that her grandchildren will never have to experience what Kabelo or she did. She did it alone. She left an abusive marriage. She supported two kids alone. She sacrificed to send them to great schools. She miraculously put herself through college and became a teacher.
I've never known hardship or bravery like that.... She is a STRONG person.
Sometimes you get so used to someone in your life, that you forget what an extraordinary human being they are. They start to blend into the background of everyday events, until you forget to SEE them. Then, suddenly, something will happen to make you see them anew, through a new lense. They suddenly appear before you again, whole and remarkable. I had that experience tonight... In seeing Makabelo through her daughter's eyes, I was reminded what a truly amazing human being my friend is.
With love from Lesotho... Mary E.
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