When Counsel Sounds Like Love

As the Mother of the Nation, I write these words with a heart that feels too heavy for my chest. My tears are falling onto my keyboard, blurring the letters before I can finish each sentence. There are moments in life when grief does not come from losing someone, but from watching someone you love fight a battle you cannot fight for them. That is where I find myself today.

It feels as though a part of my life has been placed on pause.

Sis’T is my pillar. She is the quiet strength that has carried me through many difficult seasons at AbafaziPhambili. She is more than a Board Member. She became a guardian of our vision, a protector of our mission, and one of the few people who loved this organisation enough to correct me whenever I drifted away from its mandate.

She never corrected me to silence my voice. She corrected me so that the voices of vulnerable women would never be silenced.

It has now been four months since Sis’T was admitted to hospital. What began as what seemed to be a simple headache became something far more serious after the diagnosis. Four months is a long time to watch someone you admire fight every single day.

Last week, I had the privilege of speaking to her.

She sounded joyful. We laughed. We spoke. But somewhere during that conversation, something shifted.

It was no longer an ordinary conversation. It became counsel.

That moment unsettled me more than I can explain because it reminded me of the final conversation I had with my late mother. It was not an ordinary mother-and-daughter conversation. It was counsel. Looking back now, I realise she was preparing me for a journey she knew she would not walk with me.

As Sis’T spoke to me, I heard echoes of my late Mother’s wisdom.

For a moment, time folded in on itself. Then something happened that caught me completely off guard.

For the first time since I have known her, Sis’T did not call me Sis’M or Sis’Mantoa.

She called me, “Zandi.” Only my closest family call me by that name. The moment I heard it, I became completely still. I knew what she was about to say was no longer organisational guidance. It was personal. It came from a place far beyond leadership. It came from love.

The Counsel

I told Sis’T that AbafaziPhambili had been invited for an interview with a company, but I was considering declining the invitation. I confessed that sometimes I feel exhausted trying to explain AbafaziPhambili to people who do not truly understand our work. I told her that perhaps my time would be better spent on the ground, visiting women in communities, listening to their struggles, especially as we approach the municipal elections.

She listened quietly before saying:

“Zandi, go to that interview. Go exactly as you are. Do not pretend to satisfy the client. Do not dilute yourself to secure money. Speak about gender inequality exactly the way you always do. Never reduce your voice for the comfort of others.

“People must understand the struggles of the vulnerable women we serve. The ones whose pain we carry, deserve the full truth. They must understand what AbafaziPhambili stands for. If you do not get the opportunity, that does not mean you have failed. It simply means they were looking for something different. That is not failure. That is incompatibility.”

Then she continued.

“You gave birth to AbafaziPhambili, and it became a success. You continue to innovate through the magazine, Conversations with Sis’Mantoa. Well done for that. Keep amplifying the voices of marginalised women without fear or doubt. Be unapologetic. Be unfiltered. Be direct.

“The fact that people become uncomfortable does not mean your message is wrong. It simply means they would rather hear sugar-coated romantic versions of gender inequality than face the truth.”

She went on.

“You wrote a book, and it became a success, until those who crave shallow romance rejected it. Keep selling Invincible Pain to those who are prepared to confront the realities of inequality. I am proud that it will soon reach libraries. That is history. Keep going.”

Then she spoke about SisM.

“I have been watching you. I see how you hesitate to promote her, even though the market is already there. Go and introduce SisM to the women on the ground. I love how you educate your circle, and I long for that knowledge to reach the most vulnerable women.Teach them about her the same way you teach your elite members. This is your brand, Zandi. Never feel ashamed of it. If people talk, let them talk. That is their burden, not yours. Some women may never buy SisM because they see her as someone beyond their reach. But you will inspire them to imagine their own SisM.

Who knows? Go and sell her. I want to see SisM grow the way AbafaziPhambili has grown. I want to see her grow the way Conversations with Sis’Mantoa has grown. I want to see her grow the way Invincible Pain has grown.

“Zandi, you were made for this. You can do it.”

She was not finished.

“Forget about school. You did not need it to become who you are. You were already a professor long before the institution existed. You built AbafaziPhambili. None of the people from your school could do what you have already practised for years as a Director of AbafaziPhambili. None of them could run AbafaziPhambili for even one hour.

“Never allow anyone to make you feel small because your greatest qualification has always been your experience, your practice and your commitment to justice.”

Then she left me with words I will carry for the rest of my life.

“I commend you, Zandi. Running an organisation as complex as AbafaziPhambili is not easy, yet you have carried it with remarkable strength.”

Not once during those fifty-two minutes did I interrupt her. I had barely spoken. Instead, I wept silently. 

It was only after the conversation ended that I realised how far this journey had taken me. The mountains I believed I was still climbing were, in fact, mountains I had already crossed. Sometimes it takes someone who has walked beside you to show you the distance you have travelled.

Then, over the weekend, I received a voice note from Sis’T. It left me anxious and broken .The frailty in her voice. Every word sounded as though it demanded every ounce of strength she had left. She struggled to breathe between sentences, yet she still found the strength to reach out.

I have listened to that voice note more times than I can count. Each time, my heart sinks a little deeper. Each time, I find myself whispering another prayer.

Today, I ask you to join me in prayer.

She is not only a Board Psychologist Member of AbafaziPhambili. She is a woman whose wisdom has steadied countless storms, whose counsel has shaped lives, and whose  belief has carried others long before they believed in themselves.

Some people leave footprints wherever they go. Sis’T leaves courage, strength , and wisdom. And as she continues her fight, we hold on to hope, because hope, like love, refuses to surrender.

Please pray for Sis’T.