Mainane

What has greatly informed me is that I grew up in Botswana. You see, I did not only grow there, I was born there, my siblings too, parents, their parents, great grandparents, and great-great grandparents: I am rooted there. I spent my formative years running around playing with an old bicycle wheel in the dusty passages of Mafhikana Ward in the wonderful village of Kanye.

Some of my earliest memories include my cousins and I seated around the fire, visualising every detail, our widened small eyes glued onto my eloquent grandmother. Both her moving hands in the air, as she frowned her brows often and constantly changed her voice to imitate the story characters, mostly animals, that could not only talk but also had human habits: love, honesty, and greed. I am reminded of the gigantic cannibal named Dimo, the stubborn Siwele and his singing dear mother, the toothless lion, and the mischievous mmutla-wa-matshwaratsela. The captivating generational legends, called mainane in Setswana, were timely narrated just before bedtime, mostly by the matriarch of the family. As soon as she softly stated ’’le bo le fela’’ we would rush to our beds either trembling with fear or with tears of joy in our eyes. Often, in the morning, to my short-lived shame, I was one of those who had mistaken the warm bed for the pit latrine.

It was not a surprise when at school; over the Knorr flavoured sour porridge, we took turns with my friends and classmates to narrate to each other various memorised mainane.

We were also spoilt to the thundering ululations, the clouds of dust from the hooting rare cars skidding around the kraal; the rhythmic wedding songs, the delicious mokoto at the all-male kgotla, as well as the comforting UCCSA hymns during merapelo, the memorial service. I also remember that we were taught at an early age to sit by the roadside in the event we came across a funeral procession and that the always-black hearse could be pointed at only with a thumb.

Following the exceptional oral moral-education, in 1987, I started my pre-school at the yellow-painted Mosadithari Day Care Centre, then went for my 7-year primary schooling up the hill, at Mafhikana. Followed by 2 years at the Tlhomo Community Junior Secondary, and between 1997-1999 I achieved my childhood dream: a student at Seepapitso Senior Secondary, the school is named after Kgosi Seepapitso III of my people.

Perhaps, you can now understand why I often fantasise with the idea of naming my first-born child Botswana.

#oraltradition

#moralvalues

#storytelling

#matriarchy

#education

#botswana

#feminism

#folktales

#mainane

#africa