My Ancestors Gave Birth

A Personal Piece By: Ofentse Tladi

Image Source: Ronnica Leo on Pinterest

When God was creating my great-grandmother and the many that came before her, I had already started blossoming in his heart. My name and heart were knitted alongside the lives that they lived and when I was born, I uttered their love stories as my first breath.

After that, my skin wore many shades through the years. As a child, it was the deepest black, and they called me "Mantsho" - a name that pained my father's heart. In time, it softened to a rich brown, only to turn lighter during a two-week illness that laid me low. Through it all, it returned to its familiar hue, a testament to the changes I have lived.

When I reflect on my physical appearance, I recall the times I saw my father's features in myself: the naturally perfect teeth and smile, and the familiar shape of his nose.

I once believed I resembled my father simply because of our shared skin, overlooking the features I inherited from my mother. I saw only his smile and nose in my reflection, not yet aware of the light-skinned woman whose traits I carried within me.

As I grew older, I began to see that the nose I thought was his was indeed my mothers, and that her fingers and toes, passed down from her father, also shaped my form. I was indeed her completed replica, from the tip of my head to the soles of my feet.

My mother resembles my grandfather, who I assume looked like his father. This belief I have about how genes work is quite intriguing. I think that for women, if you resemble your mother, your son will resemble you, but if you resemble your father, your daughter will resemble you. Similarly, for men, if you resemble your father, your daughter will resemble you, but if you resemble your mother, your son will resemble you. This pattern is something I've observed frequently.

You're probably wondering why I'm highlighting this or what I'm trying to get to by exploring it.

Much of who I am, both physically and in terms of personality, has been passed down through generations. As a young adult trying to figure herself out, I desperately yearn to understand my identity. I often see fragments of myself in my mother and father but I wonder where the other parts come from.

For example, am I the first writer to exist in my bloodline? If not, who was? And, do the stories they told influence the stories I tell today?

What is it about the wiring in my brain that allows me to create such narratives? I can sit for an entire day lost in my thoughts and never feel bored. Yet, this same brain wiring never allows me to sit for hours in a class focusing on a lesson.

When I was younger, my mind was filled with vivid imagery. The characters from my thoughts would sometimes come alive, and I'd see their shadows and figures when I least expect it. When I'd wake up in the middle of the night, half-asleep, I'd see people staring at me, as if they knew me or I'd met them before.

At some point, this felt like more than just my imagination.

Who I am? Where do I come from? Why do I feel the things that I feel and, what is it about the wiring of my brain that makes me pursue the things I pursue?

Nothing in this life is ever coincidental, there must be a pattern - an equation to solve and it has to start all the way from the beginning.

When my father talks about the dynamics of his side of the family, there's often a lot of mystery. It becomes this huge family tree that I can't even fit in my brain and I often forget the details. Like, who was the person that passed away, and how am I related to them?

Or, having to clarify names, faces and places because I often get them mixed up.

When my father told us about his biological father that wasn't in his life, the biggest curiosity grew in me. I learnt that his real father was Tsonga and I heard his surname.

In African traditions, one typically identifies more with their father's tribe than their mother's. While this may not align with values like equality and feminism, it remains a cultural norm. Traditionally, a woman leaves her father's home to join her husband, which may explain this practice.

I started to wonder more about my father's bloodline, but I knew the answers could hardly ever be found.

When my mother talks about the dynamics of her side of the family, there's more certainty than there is mystery. The stories of my grandfather's mother often make me feel like I know her, like I've somehow met her before.

A photograph of her my grandfather's sitting room always caught my eye whenever I passed by. I didn't initially know who she was and kept forgetting to ask. Despite my ignorance, I felt a strange familiarity with her, as if a part of her resided in me, recognizing her before I knew she was my great-grandmother. A profound sense of connection makes me believe I've met her, even though she passed away long before I was born.

If there was another thing I would ask from God, it would definitely be to help me understand this part of who I am. To tell me the stories of those who lived before me, and to help me understand the very same love stories I uttered as my first breath.