These words I wrote years ago,
etched from pain, from memory,
from streets that whispered
stories I had yet to live fully.
I come from St Helena,
but Soweto adopted me,
through grief, through pain,
through streets that whisper stories
of loss and survival.
A land of split light,
where grief sleeps in the dust,
and laughter rises above hunger,
where violence and kindness sit side by side,
like strangers sharing a taxi ride.
I was dragged by my hair once,
after dark, after work,
by a desperate hand driven
by nyaope,
a cruel mixture that breeds hunger and fear.
I never hated him—
how can you hate survival?
Yet it was the children who held my heart—
orphans with bright eyes,
growing vegetables, painting, dancing,
playing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika
on the heavy piano I dragged across oceans,
because they deserved music
as much as anyone.
They called me mama,
though I had no children of my own.
They clung to me when I left,
their tears soaking my clothes—
and mine soaking theirs.
I still hear Mbalienhle whispering,
“hamba kahle, mama,”
as if a blessing could follow me across the world.
The streets were dark and uneven,
fires burned in corners to keep warm,
and shadows moved where I could not see.
I offered to walk one child home,
but she refused, tiny and fearless,
and said instead,
“No, mama Emma… I will walk you to safety.”
Soweto is full of hardship—
blood on the streets,
gunshots at night,
clinics crowded for hours,
where people queue patiently,
handing in guns at the door
as casually as signing their names.
Ubuntu lived in tea, in ice, in care,
in arms that carried me
when whisky made my legs forget their duty.
On a Thursday night,
they dressed me in Zulu beads
and renamed me Nomkhumbulwa—
the one who remembers.
I belonged to them, and they to me.
I witnessed despair,
and I witnessed defiance—
children who refused to succumb
to gangs, to drugs, to fear,
learning, creating, surviving
with hearts larger than the city itself.
Though my life has changed for the better now,
and healing has begun to take root,
the truth remains:
in a place the world calls broken,
I found everything whole.
I found family.
I found love.
I found myself.
And somewhere in the wind, I still hear Neil’s voice,
soft as umoya, whispering I was meant to rise.
And now I return,
to Soweto, to laughter and warmth,
to children, to fires,
to my happy place once more,
where the streets still whisper,
but my heart knows the rhythm of home.
For Neil — who first walked Soweto with me.
Nov 17, 2025
Nov 17, 2025 at 6:11 AM UTC
These words I wrote years ago,
etched from pain, from memory,
from streets that whispered
stories I had yet to live fully.
I come from St Helena,
but Soweto adopted me,
through grief, through pain,
through streets that whisper stories
of loss and survival.
A land of split light,
where grief sleeps in the dust,
and laughter rises above hunger,
where violence and kindness sit side by side,
like strangers sharing a taxi ride.
I was dragged by my hair once,
after dark, after work,
by a desperate hand driven
by nyaope,
a cruel mixture that breeds hunger and fear.
I never hated him—
how can you hate survival?
Yet it was the children who held my heart—
orphans with bright eyes,
growing vegetables, painting, dancing,
playing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika
on the heavy piano I dragged across oceans,
because they deserved music
as much as anyone.
They called me mama,
though I had no children of my own.
They clung to me when I left,
their tears soaking my clothes—
and mine soaking theirs.
I still hear Mbalienhle whispering,
“hamba kahle, mama,”
as if a blessing could follow me across the world.
The streets were dark and uneven,
fires burned in corners to keep warm,
and shadows moved where I could not see.
I offered to walk one child home,
but she refused, tiny and fearless,
and said instead,
“No, mama Emma… I will walk you to safety.”
Soweto is full of hardship—
blood on the streets,
gunshots at night,
clinics crowded for hours,
where people queue patiently,
handing in guns at the door
as casually as signing their names.
Ubuntu lived in tea, in ice, in care,
in arms that carried me
when whisky made my legs forget their duty.
On a Thursday night,
they dressed me in Zulu beads
and renamed me Nomkhumbulwa—
the one who remembers.
I belonged to them, and they to me.
I witnessed despair,
and I witnessed defiance—
children who refused to succumb
to gangs, to drugs, to fear,
learning, creating, surviving
with hearts larger than the city itself.
Though my life has changed for the better now,
and healing has begun to take root,
the truth remains:
in a place the world calls broken,
I found everything whole.
I found family.
I found love.
I found myself.
And somewhere in the wind, I still hear Neil’s voice,
soft as umoya, whispering I was meant to rise.
And now I return,
to Soweto, to laughter and warmth,
to children, to fires,
to my happy place once more,
where the streets still whisper,
but my heart knows the rhythm of home.
For Neil — who first walked Soweto with me.