a woman of africa

She’s a black Xhosa woman from the Eastern Cape. Years ago, like so many before her, she made the journey to Cape Town to build a better life. Three of her six brothers and sisters followed her to Khayalitsha. They died tragically. Tuberculosis, cancer and a horrific road accident, common killers in South Africa, had taken them. Because they had followed her, she carried a heavy burden of guilt. She looks after their children as well as her own. Her husband is also dead.

This devoutly spiritual Xhosa woman came to me and asked if the deep pain in her heart would ever leave her.

We talked for a time about grief and loss and her desire for the wound within to be taken away. She spoke of it as of a living thing that had taken up residence in her, an unwelcome visitor who would not leave. Her language reminded me of how the ancient Gaelic language could give living form to human emotions as though they were unseen companions of the soul. “Ta bron orm” meaning “grief is upon me”.

Towards the end of our time together she told of how her neighbours had begun to seek her out when they were troubled, of how her remaining family in the North would travel to confide in her when they had nowhere else to turn. Together, we shared a picture of how the pain in her heart spoke to them of wisdom and experience, of a woman acquainted with grief, who understood their troubles, a woman who knew the road they travelled, a woman they could believe in.

As our talk came to a close, we were thankful in the prayer that went out from our warm embrace that the pain in her heart was a healing instrument in the hearts of others. For the first time I saw the meaning of the words “wounded healer” and I saw that sorrow can be a sign of strength. With a dignified poise, so characteristic of the Xhosa woman, she went her way. Nondima is her name and she is happy for the world to know her story.