Sethunya

Many years ago, I am told, I was born at a village by the name of Motimposo. Even with little evidence on my part, the joy my birth brought to my family is attested to by works of art my father made to celebrate my arrival. I am sure my mother celebrated too in her own way for, being a mother myself I know the joy it brings to deliver.
When you enter our home, the first thing that greets you is a brown clay mould of a face. It has sharp, but squinty eyes of some one with no hair. The shiny finish, gives the mould a remarkable essence and brilliance about its presence. For as young as I can recall, I would stare at the face, asking my father "Is this a picture of me, father"? And each time he would return with the same question, " I don't know, what do you think"? As I grew older I found out the face was either mine or Robert's, my grandfather's. My father thought I was in so many ways like grandfather. Passion for details and precision, moral uprightness, loyalty and brilliance in most things were Robert's greatest virtues.
On top of these, my father thought I ought to be able to carry a pot on my head. So, next to this face, he laid a rectangular fabric of beads in yellow and blue with the words "metsi Puleng" (water Puleng) engrained in it. I suppose he not only wanted me to shine in the matters of the mind but in the most practical day to day activities of going to well with other girls, carrying the pot on my head and bringing water home to my family. And this theme of my life has guarded me since. My desire is and always has been to bring home water and to bring it elsewhere to those who care to drink.