Of histories that can never be stolen- My story (in part)
“Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
Of all my parents' children, I was the only one my paternal grandmother named. Lilian- meaning flower- was the name she gave me- her name. She named me after herself.
On the 12th of May, I was involved in a car accident while studying outside of my home country and about a month and several health specialists later, I was discharged and allowed to return home to Swaziland, now called Eswatini, on the 12th of June.
While at home my parents told me that my grandmother had been asking to see me. And something in my heart knew that I had the biggest desire to see my namesake, too.
Saturday 14th of July, my immediate family and I finally made the trip to her home and I finally got to be in the presence of my mabizo (siSwati for someone who shares the same name as you) once again, and more joyfully, I got to be with her in her birthday month. In her mid eighties, Gogo Malinga is such a wonderful woman- lucid and a calm spirit. She has a small business and keeps records of her affairs, aware of her surroundings. Just to sit by her side and hold her hand calmed my soul and I knew I was experiencing something special. The love of my last remaining grandparent.
She shared with me, my sister and parents a lovely gift- a photo album she had kept all these years with pictures of herself, my father, her other children and my great grandmother in the "old good days." Some of the images were worn out with age, but there was a greater power in their essence. The captured memories that could now be passed on to a new generation accompanied by the stories that made those moments so dear. It was my first time seeing my grandmother that young, and in her I saw a female version of my father, and I also saw parts of myself.
More than old worn out photos shared between generations, in those images, I found life. Bits of my history that remind me of where I am from and the woman who embodies so much power and depth, who named me. Who raised a parent I loved dearly. Whose life, shaped parts of my present in ways I may never know but I was lucky to get a glimpse of.
In my search for the history of our great continent, nothing can describe seeing this part of my own history, my own story and the story of those directly before me that forms a great part of the story I am able to tell today. We all have our own oral histories, relics and places of significance to where we are from. Some draw back hundreds of years, and some maybe just a generation before. But it is in these pieces of our histories, that we can build a fuller image of ourselves and the world around us. Moreso, for minority groups whose histories have been distorted and in part erased.
But there are some histories that cannot be stolen, killed or completely removed thanks to the memory and relics of our elders. Their stories and knowledge may not make it into great history books, but how they live on in other ways!
