By Owethu Nokhangela
To understand my story and my reading journey, you have to allow me to take a little detour. My journey is not entirely mine, but also that of everyone around me, all the creatives I grew up with. I am pretty sure you are just like “girl, get on with it already, we don’t care about the chitchat”, but we have to start here.
Well, I am one of many; by that, I mean I grew up with many cousins, but at the same time, I like to call them my siblings. They say, “Gen Zs choose their own families and the roles the people they choose play,” and I did just that with my cousins. Growing up under my grandparents, we were taught a lot of things; a lot of good values were instilled in us, but the most important one after God was the power of words and the importance of reading. Even though I grew up with both grandparents, my grandmother was the one who did the reading and storytelling for us, and I think that all stems from her unwavering love for kids; she was a teacher, too, after all, from the classroom to our house.
I believe that there is no reading without storytelling. That was what my grandmother always did, jumping between reading for us and being our storyteller. I am one who grew up in a world full of colour. There is no story that I know is in black and white, and I have my grandmother to thank. No story was complicated for her to paint; she was creative, and she raised creatives. Any person who grew up under their watch and lacks creativity should really do a deep self-introspection because what were they doing back then? Her love for reading and storytelling was contagious, and we just had to take that from her, too.
It’s one of those gloomy winter days, it’s June holidays, and we are all sitting on the carpet in our grandparents’ bedroom, huddling around the heater, and I do not think I speak for one when I say that I am patiently waiting for her to transport us to far-off lands. The rain drums against the windowpane, casting a melancholy gloom over the room; its gentle hum fills the air, while its little red light illuminates the room, promising warmth and comfort. The sound of my grandmother’s voice soothes over it, creating what sounds like a serenade, a perfect sound deeply embedded in my memory. She starts by telling us her personal story, which is about her childhood and right there, I know that what will follow will be a treat. Her voice weaves a spell of enchantment around us as we all listen attentively, going through what feels like a fantasy but is her real life. She tells it so well that I can almost see myself there as a spectator, and the room fills with laughter.
“Have I ever read to you the story of the snake with seven heads?” she asks.
“No”, we all answer. A lie we did not have to tell, but because we are so obsessed with her storytelling skills, we have to.
“Please go take out Madiba Magic then from the room divider”, she adds.
Madiba Magic is a cherished book that is reserved for special occasions. It is a collection of African folktales curated by Nelson Mandela, and today is one of those days. Every grandchild is home for the holidays, so yes. It rests in the old room divider my grandparents had acquired after their marriage, hidden behind their beloved Chinese set of vases and pots. This treasured spot makes it even more symbolic, a piece of history carefully tucked away, a gem I can call it, waiting for the right moment to be remembered and shared.
She is handed the book by one of my cousins, and she opens it, running her fingers carefully through the page of contents, searching for the page number of the story. The room is now filled with heavy silence and suspense as we watch her page softly, careful not to create any creases. I watch her worn and weathered hands telling a story; a grandmother with unconditional love for her grandkids, as she pages it. Her skin is now soft and thin like the pages of a well-read book, lines of wrinkles etched into its surface like the gentle wear on a well-loved book. Her finger moves with precision, though guided by the countless times they had turned pages like this one. Once finding the page, her eyes sparkle with warmth while her hands cradle the book with a gentle reverence, as though not holding a book but a treasure trove of memories and moments to share with us.
“The Snake With Seven Heads”, she starts, and when I tell you that these are magic words, I mean just that. She brings the story to life; her exceptional storytelling skills take us through the whole plot as though we exist in the story, too.
Madiba Magic is more than a book to my family; it is what we bonded over. The more I grew up, the more I appreciated every moment we shared with my grandmother, every story told and read. Madiba Magic will always be the “it girl” in my life, and I appreciate the significance of the book and its stories every day. To me, it is more than a book; it is the base of my reading journey.
My grandmother’s love for reading and storytelling instilled in me a passion for words, curiosity, and appreciation for the power of stories as a tool to transform and inspire lives. I felt the need to expand and explore the world buried in words by reading different genres and authors. I will always appreciate her for equipping me with this one thing. She may not be with me physically, but her legacy and lessons live on through her stories and the love she always gave us.
Whenever I open a book, I relive all those cold, rainy days spent sitting around her. I now find solace in reading like the olden days; it is forever a source of comfort, growth, and nostalgia. My love for reading is what I call a testament to the enduring legacy of my grandmother’s love.
