I often think about the women before me. Guardians of the sacred bond between man and the great mother earth. Herbalists whose whispers will plants to heal illnesses, farmers licked by the raw Kalahari sun as they till and plough the land so that their children can eat well – their gif ts to their daughters are scattered in the songs of praise that they sing at midnight. To receive them, we too must sing their songs and anchor our roots deep into the heart of the earth. This is a coming-of-age story recalling the summer of 2013 in Shakwe, with my Gogo (father’s mother).
Let me tell you, Shakwe is a small village: a primary school, a two-door clinic, and no more than 500 people who live a humble life — most of whom, including my Gogo, are farmers. She is also a poet who has never written a single word, but has raised her 13 children with the help of the soil beneath her feet and the plants that she venerates.