WHEN THE ANCESTORS CALLED THEM HOME

Before I understood the meaning of love, I tasted it in the way my father left food on his plate — not because I was hungry, but because he wanted me to feel seen. In a house filled with ten children, where noise was constant and space was sacred, he made sure I never felt invisible. His love was quiet, deliberate, and deeply rooted in the rituals of everyday life. Each morning, before the sun had fully stretched across the Limpopo sky, my father would take my small hand in his and walk me to school. The gravel beneath our feet crunched like a rhythm only we knew. He didn’t speak much during those walks, but his silence was never empty. It was filled with presence — the kind that made me feel safe, cherished, and important. I remember the way he would glance at me sideways, checking if I was cold, tired, or simply lost in thought. He didn’t ask questions. He just knew. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And in our home, sharing wasn’t a rule — it was a way of life. My father taught me that. Every time he ate, he would leave a portion of his food for me, even when I had my own plate. It wasn’t about hunger. It was about love. It was his way of saying, “I see you. You matter.” I would watch him eat slowly, deliberately, always saving the best bite — the piece of meat, the last spoonful of stew, the softest pap — and placing it aside for me. I never asked him to. He just did. In a family of ten children, generosity was survival. We learned to pass down clothes, to share blankets, to split oranges into perfect segments so no one felt left out. But my father’s generosity was different. It wasn’t born of necessity. It was born of heart. He gave because he wanted to. Because he believed that love was something you showed, not just something you said. One of my favorite memories is tied to chillies. My father loved them — the way they burned, the way they awakened the tongue, the way they made simple food feel alive. I was just a child, but I wanted to be like him. So I started eating chillies too. At first, I cried. The heat was unbearable. But he would laugh gently, hand me a cup of water, and tell me, “You’re strong. You’ll get used to it.” And I did. Eventually, I craved the fire. It became our thing — a bond sealed in spice and laughter. But his love wasn’t only reserved for people. It extended to the land, to the animals, to the quiet corners of our yard where life bloomed in unexpected ways. My father had a garden — not just a patch of soil, but a living canvas. He planted with intention, with care, with reverence. Tomatoes, spinach, onions, and maize grew under his hands like they knew they were loved. I remember watching him bend over the earth, whispering to the plants as if they were old friends. He believed in the rhythm of nature, in the wisdom of the soil, in the healing power of green things. And then there were the goats and chickens. Our yard was alive with their sounds — bleats, clucks, the rustle of feathers and hooves. He cared for them like they were part of the family. Each goat had a name, each chicken a personality. He knew which ones were stubborn, which ones were gentle, which ones liked to wander. I would sit beside him as he fed them, watching the way they responded to his presence. He didn’t just raise animals. He nurtured them. But above all, he loved our mother. It was a quiet, enduring love — the kind that didn’t need grand gestures or loud declarations. He showed it in the way he looked at her when she wasn’t watching. In the way he helped her with chores without being asked. In the way he made sure she rested when she was tired, and laughed when she was weary. I remember how he would bring her a flower from the garden, or a ripe tomato he was proud of, placing it in her hand like a gift. He called her “my queen” when he was feeling playful, and “my strength” when he was feeling honest. They didn’t always speak in words. Their love was in the rhythm of their movements — the way they cooked together, raised us together, prayed together. When she was sick, he stayed close. When she was angry, he stayed gentle. When she was joyful, he joined her dance. Their love was the soil beneath our family — steady, nourishing, unseen but always present. There was something sacred about the way he moved through life. He didn’t rush. He didn’t complain. He carried the weight of our family with quiet strength, never asking for recognition. I remember watching him fix things around the house — a broken chair, a leaking tap, a torn shoe — with hands that were rough but gentle. He was a man of action, not words. But when he did speak, his voice carried wisdom. He would say things like, “Respect is earned in silence,” or “A full heart doesn’t need to shout.” When he passed, the silence was unbearable. It wasn’t just the absence of his footsteps or his voice. It was the absence of his presence — that steady, grounding energy that made everything feel okay. I remember sitting at the table, staring at my plate, waiting for him to leave a piece of his food for me. But he didn’t. And that’s when it hit me — he was gone. The ancestors had called him home. In our culture, death is not an end. It is a return. A homecoming. A reunion with those who walked before us. But knowing that didn’t make the pain any less. I cried for days. Not just for the loss, but for the love that felt unfinished. I wanted one more walk to school. One more bite of chilli. One more moment of quiet generosity. One more morning watching him greet the goats like old friends. One more evening watching him love our mother with his eyes. But grief has a way of teaching us things we never asked to learn. It showed me that love doesn’t die. It transforms. It becomes memory, ritual, legacy. I started leaving food on my plate — not because I was full, but because I wanted to feel close to him. I began strolling, deliberately, as if he were beside me. I started telling my siblings the things he used to say, hoping his wisdom would echo through my voice. I planted a small garden of my own, and when the chillies bloomed, I cried. Sometimes, I dream of him. He’s always walking and always smiling. Sometimes he’s eating, and he leaves a piece of food on the table. Sometimes he’s in the garden, humming to the soil. Sometimes he feeds the goats, calling them by name. Sometimes he’s standing beside our mother, holding her hand. I wake up crying, but also grateful. Because even in death, he’s still teaching me how to share, how to nurture, how to love. I carry him in my bones. In the way I love. In the way I give. In the way I remember. This chapter is for him — the man who shared everything. The man who taught me that love is quiet, generous, and enduring. The man who made me strong enough to eat chilies, gentle enough to leave food for someone else, and wise enough to plant seeds that bloom long after he’s gone. When the ancestors called him home, they took a man who had already given everything. And I, his daughter, remain — walking, planting, loving, remembering.