Growing up without a mother

N. Lupindo

My story begins with a love that blossomed in high school, between my Sotho mother and my Xhosa father. They were young, in love, and their love brought me into the world. My parents were traditionally married, and my mother took on a marriage name, as is customary among the Xhosa people. They welcomed me into their lives soon after their high school days, a tangible result of their youthful romance.

As a young couple, my parents moved between two towns in the Eastern Cape: uMTATA and Matatiele. Sometimes I stayed with them, and other times with my father’s family, adjusting to the rhythm of our somewhat nomadic life due to the public transport structure back then. This phase of my life, though fragmented, felt whole because I was surrounded by family and love.

Tragedy struck in 1997 when my father took his own life. I was only four years old. My mother and I continued our journey together, moving homes until 2001 when she took me to live with my father’s family while she sought job opportunities in Gauteng. Life had a semblance of normalcy; I was a happy child, even in the face of adversity.

In December 2004, I visited my mother in Johannesburg. It was the best time I ever had with her. Little did I know that those moments would be my last with her. In May 2005, my mother succumbed to HIV, and she was buried the following month. The grief was compounded by the fact that I was living in a boarding school and only visited my father’s family during the holidays. The death of my mother marked a profound shift in my life, a pivot from childhood innocence to a harsh reality.

After her death, I moved in with my maternal grandmother, a woman I barely knew. This transition was incredibly challenging. Living with my grandmother revealed a lot about my family’s dynamics and my own unresolved traumas. I realised that the void left by my mother’s absence was filled with confusion, hurt, and a sense of brokenness.

Life with my grandmother was difficult. The memories of my parents and the life I once knew faded as I struggled to adapt to a new environment. I had to leave the boarding school and face a different reality. The trauma of losing my mother and the subsequent upheaval led me to bury many memories of her, a defense mechanism to protect myself from the pain.

My mother’s death left an emptiness and hopelessness in me that I struggled to articulate. There were times I wished I hadn’t been born or could have died alongside my father in 1997. Life felt more like a punishment than a blessing without her. Despite being a good student and a well-behaved child, accusations and shame plagued my life.

In every moment of joy, sadness, confusion, and fear, I felt her absence acutely. Hearing stories of her kindness and faith brought mixed emotions; comfort in knowing she was loved by others and jealousy that I couldn’t experience her love fully. To cope, I blocked out memories of her, which led to me forgetting her voice and many details of our time together. Yet, certain memories linger: her bringing me the best clothes and yogurt (a treat I still love), holding me like a baby, and our walks around the community. These fragments are all I have left of her.

Despite the pain and the barriers I’ve built, my mother’s legacy lives on in me. I strive to be as forgiving, graceful, and loyal as she was. She endured so much, hurt by those who should have protected her, yet she loved deeply and generously. I cry for her pain and mine, but I know that to heal, I must confront these wounds, a process that feels like surgery.

Living in my head, the hope of what could be keeps me going. I still crave the love and safety of a mother, a void that remains unfilled. My story, though unique in its specifics, is similar to many others. I am grateful for the grace of salvation, which has kept me from perishing. As I grow older, I am forced to deal with my past, and it is overwhelming. Working through these hurts is hard, but I know it is necessary to become whole. I don’t want to be a wounded soldier in the field; I want to be healed and whole.

In this journey, I find solace in my faith. Truly, if it were not for the Lord, I would have perished by my own hands or the enemy's. Grace has kept me, and though the path is tough, I hold on to hope. I wish this cup would pass, but I trust that in facing my pain, I will find healing and strength.

Editors note: I pray that all those who lost their mothers find healing. God is a healer. The best there is, was and ever will be. I hope this story by this strong beautiful woman encourages you to keep going forward. The Lord is with you. You are loved. 🌸🩷🌸