July 13, 2021 marks the first anniversary since the untimely death of ambassador, activist, poet and writer Zindziswa Nobutho Mandela. Born on December 23, 1960, Zindzi (as she is fondly known across the world) came of age during the apartheid era. She was among the generation of 1976 who took a stand against the regime, reviving fierce open defiance after a decade of underground political activity.
As part of honouring her remarkable life, her son, Zondwa Mandela, remembers what she stood for. The Mandela Legacy Foundation will also host and curate a series of events in celebration of her contribution to the liberation movement, to politics and to literature.
The irony and wonder that was my mother’s enchanted existence extended itself in the identity and composition of her crew of friends. My mother’s friends call themselves “Roshatu”... this too, in recognition of the undervalued unrecognised yet very powerful profession.
A strategic appointment, advocate (Dali) Mpofu was the perfect BEE candidate as his job by day is the legal profession. The women who form part of this riotous crew are funny, formidable and kind – just like my mother.
My mother is one of the few people whose qualities leave our egos feeling satisfied to venerate. We recognise that we can speak about our experiences with our mother, but what is inspiring is how she holds others. She holds others in a place of dignity and respect and keeps them there because she is warm. My mom’s transition has been eminent. For many close to her, she slowly started to make room.
My mother always does what she wants. After just two short years of the loss of the love of our lives ... a broken heart would no longer be content. It was painful to watch her fight for what she believed right. And sometimes her fight was passive yet insidious.
The spiritual butterfly I know she is, I’m sure most of us were unknowing of dealing with. That part of her remains a shining light in our pursuit of what’s important. She sat at the feet of the giant, Credo Mutwa, and drank from his ever-giving spring of spiritual insight.
With her, she carried the burden of the brutality enforced upon his and his family’s bodies. She knows all too well what it takes to survive. Her body in its many carnations has always been endowed with the gift. She used hers like magic. Weaving our breaking families back together. Fighting our transgressors, always assuring.
She knows none of us is the sum total of our mistakes. She has eyes of the spirit and the heart of gold. My mother’s smile and sweet alluring scent were a light that beamed right into our hearts. I am so thankful to my mother for giving us this space in history.
I look back at the way our family’s life has unfolded and I am in awe and I am proud. I am proud to say who I am. That is because I have a direct claim to the world's most historic triumph. My name becomes a shield I take to battle, even at my most vulnerable.
I am connected to myself because she always gave us the space to set our own terms for how we wished to engage in life. I love her for teaching me how to fight. For taking me to war. I thank her for shielding me when it hailed bullets in my grandmother’s house. I salute her for her stealth and prowess. I respect her love and dedication to her people. I admire her loyalty to her family.
I am encouraged by her discipline of the spirit. I am inspired by her consistency of tenderness. I reflect on my life with my mom as having been perfect.
* This article is part of a partnership between Independent Media and the Winnie Mandela Foundation in celebrating the late stalwart's life.