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Entire house
12 guests
4 bedrooms
4 beds
3 baths
12 guests
4 bedrooms
4 beds
3 baths
Spacious Chalet for Wine Lovers, Fishing Enthusiasts, Naturists, and Families. Includes a private pond and access to includes 30 acres of woods. Located in the center of Ohio's wine country. Seasonal winery located on-site. Contact Martin Susec in Hilliard Ohio at (Phone number hidden by Airbnb) to book direct.
Free parking on premises
Cable TV
Indoor fireplace
Air conditioning
House Rules
Check-in is anytime after 4PM
Check out by 11AM
11 Reviews
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This home is a great facility for a family get together. Important things like the kitchen is well equipped. There is a grill that works but is a little temperamental. Needs some cleaning. The bedrooms are good, but there is the one that is a walk thru the the two other bedrooms…
Response rate: 100%
Response time: within a few hours
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Property prices in Finland
Why cross-border investments will grow in the next decade
Mortgages in the UK
2015 in review: 15% more sales
Tranio.com brokers 500th overseas property transaction
Buying and registering real estate in Greece
Luxury villa project on the coast located near the lovely towns of moraira and javea on a southwest orientated building plot of 1.161m2 with spectacular coastal views.
A comfortable villa of 520 m² wth elegant interior built on a flat plot with a garden, a pool, a convenient driveway, parking places and a large garage is for sale. The pool is surrounded by a wide...
The cozy villa is located in a quiet residential area, just a 10-minute drive from Monaco with a panoramic view of the sea and surrounding hills.
We offer the spacious apartment in a residence with a swimming pool.

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Mercedes has launched a 14 meter long yacht, following in the footsteps of other luxury car manufacturers like Porsche and Ferrari who also offer top class boats.
Mercedes has launched a 14 meter long yacht, following in the footsteps of other luxury car manufacturers like Porsche and Ferrari who also offer top class boats.
US President Donald Trump's threat to impose taxes on European cars has sent shivers through the German auto sector. Analysts and politicians warn that the move could backfire on the US car industry, and even help China.
Luxury sports carmaker Ferrari has said it may build a crossover utility vehicle, calling the SUV market "too big and too inviting" to ignore. It promised the brand's exclusivity would not be compromised.
With 10 nominations, "3 Days in Quiberon" is this year's top contender for a "Lola," as the German Film Awards are also known. Here are other works that could win an award on Friday.
Libraries have existed for more than 4,000 years. They may resemble a ballroom or a UFO, but no matter what they look like, they are great places to celebrate World Book Day 2018 on April 23.
Take part in the quiz and you could win great CDs! We play a cover version of a German hit, and you tell us who did the original.
As DW unveils its new art collection featuring two major Senegalese artists — the "Joseph Beuys of Africa," Joe Ouakam, and Paris-based Soly Cissé — we look at a booming trend in the global art market.
The most important prize in the country's gaming industry, the German Computer Games Awards selects innovative games in 14 categories. This year's winners include "Huxley," "Assassin's Creed Origins" and "Townsmen VR."
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Putin ready to turn off Europe's gas supply
Alarming headline in today's Times alerting us to the imminent danger that Russia is about to restrict gas supplies to western Europe. Even more alarming is the fact that, due to the intricate linking of the European gas network, we don't know exactly how much of our gas actually comes from Russia other than its probably in the 6-50% range. Putin has used gas supplies as an economic weapon before, bringing Ukraine to heel in 2013. We're guessing that recent Russian deals to supply gas and oil to Asian markets from it's eastern fields has made them confident that the Russian economy wouldn't collapse without the cash that energy exports to Europe bring.
We've been banging on for years about the fragility of the UK's energy supplies and how we are hopelessly dependent on some states run by bad, mad or bad and mad people. The spat with Russia is one thing. Just wait until we fall out with Qatar…..
This isn't just about heating our homes and offices. We are generating increasing amounts of electricity from gas fired power stations and if these haven't got gas to burn, the lights go out. The short termism which has blighted UK energy policy has ensured that there is no Plan B.
If you think it's time that your business took greater control of its energy supply, we're ready to talk.
News Headlines
Tesla will soon face serious EV competition from Porsche
Gas, nuclear and coal generators told to produce less electricity this summer
British Gas is increasing the cost of energy by 5.5% this month
VW is still dealing with the fallout from #dieselgate in the US
Audi is joining the all electric club with a new SUV
UK electricity demand being generated by renewables just keeps growing
Saudi Arabia is going to build the world's largest solar project
Electric air transport on the horizon
Spat between Aston Martin and Rolls Royce
National Grid planning a network of superfast chargers at UK motorway services
California is racing towards a solar future
Porsche and Daimler Benz increasing EV commitments
UK industry pays 33% more for electricity than the rest of Europe
Former Energy Minster pleas for government to bankroll expensive Swansea tidal lagoon
Gloucestershire drivers are leaders in the electric car uptake
A compelling business argument for solar
The potential for solar across Africa is huge
UK's reliance on imported gas could soon backfire
Fuel forecourt operators have a serious choice to make with EV charging


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Coordinator, Integrated Social Partnerships
A+E NetworksNew York, NY
Full Time Job
Coordinator, Integrated Social Partnerships (Non-staff)
The Coordinator, Integrated Social Partnerships is responsible for developing and managing integrated campaign concepts to drive engagement and meet client objectives across A E brands. This person will report into the Manager, Integrated Social Partnerships
• Work with Manager on translating ad sales and marketing objectives into actionable social strategy
• Collaborate with the Integrated Marketing and Partnerships Team on the ideation/creation of social content to meet overarching objectives of client campaigns
• Assist in the development of proactive ad sales social offerings of varying levels
• Assist in the development and execution of fan engagement campaigns that deliver goals of the organization (marketing, revenue, engagement)
• Act as a liaison between Ad Sales, Social, Brand Creative, Paid and when needed, social agency for approvals
• Identify opportunities to drive ad sales/engagement campaigns performance through paid social media support, video distribution, native advertising, and social influencers/talent
• Work with research to track performance and benchmarks of ad sales and engagement activations, sharing relevant information with Partnerships and Ad Sales as requested
• Work with research team on competitive benchmarks for campaigns and recap reports to inform Integrated, Partnerships and Ad Sales teams of success
• Assist in the management of all associated legal, budgeting and invoice processing (if needed)
• Responsible for aiding in education of the broader Ad Sales and marketing team on best practices in social media
• Develop case studies for Partnerships and Integrated Marketing teams
Qualification Requirements Candidate must meet the following:
• 1-2 years of digital marketing experience or project management experience, with strong preference for specialization in entertainment marketing or social
• General understanding of sales terminology, as well as social media content and distribution strategy.
• General understanding of sales terminology, as well as social media content and distribution strategy.
• Self-motivated, extremely detail oriented and independent worker with strong track record of cross functional collaboration
• Pervasive positive attitude despite the challenges of juggling multiple projects and personalities
• Passion for pop culture and television
Other Skills and Knowledge Please note project assignment associates are engaged to provide service to A E Networks on a temporary basis in connection with a specific project. Project assignment associates are hired and employed through a third party vendor with a duration/tenure of no longer than twelve (12) months.
A E Networks, LLC. is a joint venture of Disney-ABC Television Group and Hearst Corporation. A E Networks is proud to be an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Employer/Disabled/Veterans.


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mobile: 09886789678/080-41530751 website: www.serversrent.com hi all, we have sun sparc t7-1server rental and sale processor thirty-two core, 4.13 ghz sparc m7processor up to 256threads per processor (up to 8 threads per core) eight accelerators per processor, each supporting fo
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30 minute meal: Ground Beef Stuffed French Bread Sandwich - mushroom soup, onion, cheese and seasonings make this almost like a Philly Cheese Steak.
Crock pot butternut squash soup with a splash of coconut milk.
Baked Parmesan Mushrooms - baked with parmesan, thyme and lemon goodness! needed another mushroom recipe besides & BBQ sauce!
Jalapeño Popper Bites, easy and delicious! I used reduced far crescent rolls and fat free cream cheese.
Cesar Salad Wonton Cups These are made using wonton wrappers as the cups. They bake crispy and golden with just a light spray of oil. A great shortcut for appetizers!
One Pot Cheesy Zucchini Brown Rice
pork tenderloin stuffed w/shallots poached pears blue cheese cooks in less than an hour
Mexican Street Corn - Mexican style corn on the cob smeared with a creamy spread and sprinkled with a cheesy spiced topping. -GET THAT CORN OUTTA MY FACE!
NECTARINE SUMMER SALAD Ingredients: nectarines 2 heirloom tomatoes 1 ball of mozzarella di bufala 1 small bundle of bas.


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Rentcars.com, a Brazilian-based online travel agency specializing in car rentals, has partnered with GOL Airlines, one of Brazil's air transport companies.
As part of the relationship, Rentcars.com will offer car rentals to GOL's customers. The car rental service will be available to all reservations made on GOL's website, including flights operated by its alliance partners such as Delta, Air France, Qatar, Etihad, and TAP.
GOL customers will benefit from the convenience of arranging car rental and airline tickets in one place, according to Rentcars.com.
Founded in 2009, Rentcars.com offers car rental reservations in Brazil and more than 60 countries. It also features a customer service contact center.
Josh Pittsburgh [ April 5, 2016 @ 03:11PM ]
Excellent website! I've rented with them in Brazil, very quickly, cheap and easy!
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Technological solutions are finally moving from reality to theory, peer-to-peer platforms are being redefined, China has the biggest room for growth, while Sixt's U.S. aspirations have only just begun.
Sure, any company would jump at the chance to use technology to reduce labor costs. But it also comes with some big, red, flashing warning lights.
An analysis of the conference calls of Avis Budget Group and Hertz Global Holdings reveal trends and initiatives involving fleet right sizing, pricing, ancillary revenue opportunities, and renting to ride-hailing drivers.


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- photos
- list
Quick Facts
- Current Prices:$154,900
- Closed Prices:$179,900
- Median Sale Price:$179,900
- Average $ per sq ft:$144
- Association Fee Ranges:$0
- Type:Single Family Home
- Age:1935 to 2007
- Sq. Ft.:1,080 to 1,879Sq. Ft.
- Bedrooms:2 to 3Bedrooms
- Bathrooms:1 to 2Bathrooms
Frosts is a neighborhood in Altamonte Springs, Florida. Homes in Frosts are 1,500 square feet on average and typically have three bedrooms and one bathrooms. Homes in this neighborhood typically sit on quarter-acre lots. The most common type of parking in the community is carport, and homes in Frosts typically have one space.
|GreatSchools Rating & School Name
|School Facts
|Parent Ratings
Disclaimer: School attendance zone boundaries are supplied by Maponics and are subject to change. Check with the applicable school district prior to making a decision based on these boundaries.


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4728 MT Philo RoadCharlotte, VT 05445MLS Number 4671963
- Sale Price: $411,500
- 8 Days Since Sale
- 3Bedrooms
- 1.04Acreage
- 2Bathroom
- 1979Year Built
New England charm throughout this light and airy 3 bedroom, 2 bath remodeled cape only steps to Mt Philo with views of Camels Hump. This gorgeous home sits on 1.04 private acres with mature fruit trees and endless perennials. Step inside to a bright open kitchen featuring a kitchen island with a stunning Vermont Farm Table Maple top, Soapstone countertops, Blanco Porcelain Farmhouse Apron sink, Cabico Custom Maple cabinets, stainless steel appliances, Conant lighting and gleaming hardwood birch floors. The living room boasts a vaulted ceiling, just refinished wide pine floors and sliding glass doors that overlook the usable large lush yard with raised garden beds. Downstairs you will also find a first floor bedroom plus an additional guest room currently set up as an office. Recently renovated second floor includes 2 more bedrooms, a full bath, 2nd floor laundry and stunning birch floors. This well maintained property has many updates including a standing seam metal roof, spray foam insulation upstairs, newer furnace and windows throughout. Spacious full basement with an insulated room and full attic. Plus this property abuts wildlife corridor and neighbors VT Land Trust. Welcome home.
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More Info
Basic Information
- BloggingYes
- List Price$449,000
- Virtual TourClick Here
- SeasonalNo
- Bedrooms3
- Bathroom2
- Total Baths2
- MLS Number4671963
- Sale Date04/16/2018
- Sale Price$411,500
- Acreage1.04
- Lot Description
- Conserved Land
- Country Setting
- Landscaped
- Mountain View
- Trail/Near Trail
- Walking Trails
- Wooded
- ZoningRural
- DrivewayGravel
- RoadsPaved
- Property TypeSingle Family
- ElectricCircuit Breaker(s), Underground
- Heat FuelOil
- Heat SystemElectric, Forced Air, Hot Air, Wall Units
- Sewer1000 Gallon, On-Site Septic Exists, Septic Design Available
- WaterDrilled Well
- Tax ReductionYes
- Surveyed Y/NYes
- AVMNo
- PossessionAt Closing
- Taxes$4,752
- StreetMT Philo
- Building Number4728
- TownCharlotte
- Zip05445
- Flood Zone Y/NNo
- CountyChittenden
- DistrictChittenden South
- Elementary SchoolCharlotte Central School
- Junior HighCharlotte Central School
- High SchoolChamplain Valley UHSD #15
- StateVT
- Room 1 TypeBedroom
- Room 1 Level1
- Room 2 TypeBonus Room
- Room 2 Level1
- Room 3 TypeBath - Full
- Room 3 Level1
- Room 4 TypeBedroom
- Room 4 Level2
- Room 5 TypeBedroom
- Room 5 Level2
- Room 6 TypeKitchen - Eat-in
- Room 6 Level1
- Room 7 TypeBath - Full
- Room 7 Level2
- Room 8 TypeLiving Room
- Room 8 Level1
- Room 9 TypeOther
- Room 9 LevelBasement
- Interior FeaturesCathedral Ceiling, Ceiling Fan, Dining Area, Kitchen Island, Kitchen/Dining, Laundry Hook-ups, Natural Light, Skylight, Vaulted Ceiling, Laundry - 2nd Floor
- Year Built1979
- Full Baths2
- FloorsHardwood, Softwood, Wood
- Stories2
- Water HeaterGas - LP/Bottle
- Total Rooms8
- APX Unfin Below Grade565
- BasementConcrete, Concrete Floor, Finished, Full, Insulated, Partially Finished
- FoundationConcrete
- Property StyleCape, Contemporary, Modified
- Building ConstructionInsulation-Cellulose, Insulation-Foam, Wood Frame
- ConstructionExisting
- Square Feet1887
- RoofStanding Seam
- Exterior ColorDark Grey
- ExteriorCedar, Clapboard
- Exterior FeaturesDeck, Patio, Shed, Window Screens, Windows - Double Pane
- Accessibility Amenities1st Floor Bedroom,1st Floor Full Bathroom,1st Floor Hrd Surfce Flr, Hard Surface Flooring, Kitchen w/5 Ft. Diameter
- Parking Spaces
- Parking DescriptionParking Spaces 4
- Broker NameKW Vermont
- Agent NameCarmody
- Date Listed01/01/2018
- StatusSLD
- Page590
- Delayed ShowingsNo
- Number of Photos22
- View Count24
Charlotte, VT Demographics
There is no data available
Charlotte, VT Real Estate Market Data
There is no data available
Charlotte, VT Schools
|School Name
Raving Fans
"This agent listed our property and had multiple offers in hand in less than a week. Just as important, we accepted an offer, she personally followed through on all pending sale details which insured that our closing occurred with no last minute surprises. Geri is knowledgeable of a broad market area, and has a competent and [...]
- Peter, Colchester 2017
"We had a great experience working with Geri and her team of real estate experts. They were knowledgeable, flexible and had a fast response time. I highly recommend working with this team!"
- Jessie, Essex Jct. 2017
"Geri Reilly and her team went out of their way to support us, both as home sellers and buyers. She is kind, determined, and very thoughtful. We sold our house in less then 3 months and moved into our dream home. Bryce, Kim and Susannah were great advocates throughout [...]
- Carin & Luke, Hinesburg 2015
Thank you is not enough to say for getting my house sold. I am so relieved to have it behind me and get on with my life. I have enjoyed working with you and would highly recommend you.
Joan, South Burlington, VT
From my initial contact with Geri Reilly concerning my interest in the area, she and her staff provided me with outstanding service. They provided me with detailed information about the market, responded in a timely manner to my queries and requests, arranged a highly organized and efficient weekend of home tours that was consistent with my [...]
LJR, Colchester 2014
Thanks for all the work. You have a great team. Always on top of things. Pictures were great. Advertising was wonderful. Thanks for all your help in listing and buying. We might have spent too much on the buying end without your input.
John and Janice, Williston
Geri and her team were great to work with. My wife and I purchased a home from them in South Burlington VT. Ellen Zdyb showed us many homes and is by far the hardest working realtor I have ever met. She was great to work with. Once we went under contract, Geri and Kim took the reigns and worked for us tirelessly. The entire office was great to [...]
Erin & Jared, South Burlington 2014
It was nice working with you too, thanks for your kindness and professionalism. All the best.
Bonnie, Charlotte, VT
A tiny note with a great big thank you. You were great to work with and I appreciate all your help. Can't wait for you to see my new abode.
Pat, South Burlington, VT
Geri and her team made us feel like we were their only clients with the personal attention they gave to every detail of our home buying experience. Any and all questions or concerns in the process were immediately responded to and addressed to our complete satisfaction. We appreciated their expertise and guidance and were confident that [...]


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There are 2 ways to get from Sydney to Saratoga by train or car
Select an option below to see step-by-step directions and to compare ticket prices and travel times in Rome2rio's travel planner.
What companies run services between Sydney, NSW, Australia and Saratoga, NSW, Australia?
Transport NSW operates a train from Sydney to Saratoga every 30 minutes. Tickets cost $7 - $11 and the journey takes 1 h 10 min.
- Phone
- 131 500
- Website
- transportnsw.info
Train from Central Station to Woy Woy Station
- Ave. Duration
- 1 h 10 min
- Frequency
- Every 30 minutes
- Estimated price
- $7 - $11
- Schedules at
- tp.transportnsw.info
- Economy
- $7 - $11
- 1st Class
- $9 - $15
Want to know more about travelling around the world?
Rome2rio's Travel Guide series provide vital information for the global traveller. Read our range of informative guides on popular transport routes and companies - including Italian Lakes: Getting around by train, Travelling to and around Russia for the 2018 FIFA World Cup and Want to know more about Flixbus? - to help you get the most out of your next trip.
Questions & Answers
The distance between Sydney and Saratoga is 45 km. The road distance is 85 km.
The cheapest way to get from Sydney to Saratoga is to drive which costs $10 - $15 and takes 1 h 9 min.
The quickest way to get from Sydney to Saratoga is to drive which takes 1 h 9 min and costs $10 - $15.
It takes approximately 1 h 52 min to get from Sydney to Saratoga, including transfers.


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The Pain of Losing an Election
The 2017 elections remain one of the most contested, memorable and divisive elections in the history of Kenya. The second elections under the 2010 constitution, it witnessed staggering 15,082 aspirants for just 1,882 elective positions. These were just the ones who actually barely survived the revolving knives of the shambolic party primaries. From the very start, it seemed that the sheer interest was already going to be a recipe for high stakes cut throat mud fight politics of winner takes all, losers accept and move on; or maybe not. Whereas there has been focus on the presidential race, rightfully so, the lower cadres explored the finer isms as well; nepotism, clannism, tribalism, classism, among others.
When Raila Odinga and Uhuru Kenyatta recently appeared jointly to address the nation, it appeared as if the beginning of the end of one of the longest electioneering periods. It seems the Lord of Accept and Move On, had once again visited Kenya. Well, not for most. For starters, the 13,200. The 13,200 looks like the title of a classical movie produced by Marvel about the fight for freedom and self-determination. It would probably have a main character called John Duke who would be fearless, determined and have unwavering belief in their course. This 13,200, however, is the story of those who did not make it. Those Kenyans who offered themselves for election and did not get the seat. I deliberately did not use the word lost. There is a Kenyan proverb that says nobody loses the elections fairly, they were rigged out.
Two of my favourite billboards used to be on Ngong Road near Junction Mall, on your way to town. They were on either side of the road, staring at each other as if waiting to see which will blink fast. One was for Johnson Sakaja and the other one for omwami Edwin Sifuna, both accomplished young men in their own right, both far from 'home', and both vying to be the Senator of the Green City in the Sun on the tickets of Kenya's largest political parties. I liked the billboards, not just for their visual appeals and the messages and slogans they displayed, but for their deeper meaning. They say meaning is derived majorly from the audience. For me, what excited my brains the most was the realization that after all the staring, one would eventually, succumb, literally. A few days after the August elections, I passed by the billboards again, before they were brought down. Edwin Sifuna was still smiling in that billboard, but it was as if something had changed in that smile, like it had lost its warmth, like he was using every ounce of effort to hold the smile in place. That kind of smile made famous by the Kenyan phrase "Hata sija skia vibaya". Of course, the billboard hadn't changed, it had always been like that. Maybe I was empathizing with the young lawyer because I could relate to his loss. I could see my father in him.
Have you ever wondered what happened to the Kenyans who lost seats that they had vigorously campaigned for? Have you ever wondered what happens to those who resign their plum positions to serve their country on a different basis? More importantly, how does it start? Maybe you post a photo on social media and a friend quips that you should vie for a public office. You laugh and joke along but deep down; a seed has been planted in your heart. Or does it begin when you are having two for the road with your friends, and you are extremely generous that day and they pat you on the back and casually say, "'Buda, si usimame. Umeweza. Sisi tuko nawe all the way". Or is it a deep unignorable conviction from your heart that won't go away, gnawing until you softly shout, "I yield. I will be vying. Leave me alone now."
My father vied in the August 2017 elections as well. Unfortunately, he did not even get to the final cast of the 13,200. We were having family conversations late at night after dinner like we normally do during the holidays when my brother asked him if the rumours were true; if he would really be vying for a seat in the Homa Bay County Assembly. He complained about the state of infrastructure, the blatant misuse of county resources by the former member of county assembly among other ills bedevilling the people. He talked about how, if properly managed, devolution could be an important bridge for development. He said the people had asked him to serve them. He did not directly answer us whether he would be vying or not. A politician was coming to birth. He had listened keenly, or seemed to, when we told him how expensive it would be to run for a seat at the assembly, the pressure on family and the emotional and physical wear it would have on him. We were looking out for him, we had thought so. When he announced the following day at church that he indeed he would be vying, we looked at each other, not really surprised, but with the look you have when you get that news that you had been expecting all along but nevertheless, had hoped would have miraculously passed.
My dad is one of those 'true' African men who have a hard time expressing their feelings. This is not to say that he doesn't talk much. He talks. Just about the weather, politics, and other critical issues of national importance. He is those parents who used to come to school during visiting days swinging his hands; a phone on one hand and Nation Newspaper on the other. We would talk briefly about my grades and how the people at home were doing and whatever big project was happening; a school harambee back at home, the dilapidation of the road back home; the proposed revival of Miwani Sugar Company. He would invite me to help him fill the Codeword puzzle, an exercise more for my benefit than his, and patiently watch me struggle to get the lead word. We would shake hands and he would be on his way, an arm lighter as he would leave me with his favourite newspaper. Leaving his ubiquitous companion behind would be the closest he would come to say, I love you son.
Of course, there was no way he was going to ask us to support him. I don't ever remember the old man asking for anything. He had this guise of 'I got it covered', a ruse we had bought hook, line and sinker, in our younger years. We were wiser now.
We mobilized ourselves, helped set up a committee, mobilized additional resources and helped with ideas whenever we could. We even joined him in a few rallies and strategy meetings whenever, we could. We attempted to be there while taking precaution not to dominate. The committee had experienced politicians, local technocrats and a youth wing that was passionate, strong and believed in their general. They were motivated not by what they were receiving, but how they would get opportunities from being 'close to power'. From their conversations, projections and action plans, it seemed that they had it all covered.
I must confess I have always been wary of politics; Kenyan politics. They say it is a dirty game where the 'dirtiest' thrive. I have always envisioned it as the theatre of the absurd, where issues and ideas are peripheral to comedy, rhetoric and self-aggrandizement. It hurts me when I see public intellectuals engage in debates over non-issues. Maybe, I had been too harsh. Maybe politics could be different.
After traversing all areas, campaigning, selling his vision, it was nomination day. From the initial projections and counted votes we were doing well. We had every reason to believe that victory was in sight. In this area, they could as well cancel the General Elections, party nominations got you two feet in. When we reported to the constituency tallying centre, we had the summaries of the announced results and thought it was given. I stood directly behind my father on the dais where the results were to be announced from. It was more of an instinctive reaction to protect him, I don't know from what.
When the returning officer made a contrary announcement, we were stunned. The old man was immobile for a while. It was difficult to know what he was thinking. Was he surprised? Angry? Disappointed? Anxious? His face remained expressionless, calm, as if he knew something we didn't. I requested for the forms to see what would have gone wrong. It was a charade at the very least. The numbers that were used were written on a piece of paper, plucked from an exercise book and collated using a phone calculator, with little attempt to involve the candidates in the tallying. There were no signed forms at all as should have been.
Meanwhile the rival supporters had broken into ululations and dance. They had begun to throw obscenities at the old man. They said that he should know people. They hurled a few unprintable things. It was the first time it hit me that he was a politician. That he had to accept that this was part of the game that he had signed up for, that he was not immune to slander. That clarity in thought hadn't stopped me from feeling angry for him. How could they?
"Nyakawalulochwa,"(We must follow up on our victory) they had insisted. Trust me it's deeper in Dholuo.
After an eternity of shuttling between home, Homa Bay and Nairobi, sleep deprived, the appeal was successful. My father was handed an interim certificate from NASA, but another counter-appeal against him was successful, before we had even started celebrating. It was a story that would intrigue political analysts and make a great plot for a skit at Kenya National Theatre.
Meanwhile he kept receiving calls from curious supporters and friends who wanted to know what was happening. Each was recommending a different course of action. It is at this time that you realize everybody knows everybody. "Call the Governor, I know this party official, stop wasting time with the party appeal, go to the parties' tribunal. Talk to IEBC. Explain what happened. Tell them this was a robbery". Pursuing each recommendation had its own cost implications. We however followed most of the logical recommendations. At least we owed them that. From their tone, you could feel the disappointment, impatience, frustrations, like the oldman wasn't doing enough to protect their victory; luwolochgi. He didn't say it, but you could feel the strain of having to relay the same message to different people was taking a toll on him. I think, by repeating the message, it was also starting to dawn on him that options were fast closing, and that maybe the illustrious run was coming to an end, after all.
A million assurances later, late night strategy meetings with advisors and political 'bigwigs' and wheeler-dealers, unintentional camping at the party headquarters, the provisional party list was released, his name conspicuously missing. That's just the provisional list, relax, they assured him. We will still fix it, when it matters the most. Meanwhile the gnawing feeling that we were postponing the inevitable was beginning to grow. It was increasingly feeling like a case of throwing good money after bad. When it was apparent that the provisional certificate and the assurances they had given him had the weight of a sack of cotton, his committee insisted he vie on an independent ticket, an idea that would not see the light of the day.
When he decided to pull the plug, we heaved a sigh of relief. Were we bad children for getting relieved that this phase was coming to an end? We felt so.
Shouldn't we have urged him more to 'luwolochwa?".
The pain of losing is however not just on the loser, it's on the family. It is in knowing that he says he is okay but he is not. It is knowing that he didn't want it, but when he wanted it, he wanted it with all his being. It is in knowing that it is not his pain alone that he carries, that of his people too. Their frustrations. Their anger at the system; at him; at us. Why couldn't he be stronger? Why couldn't we have been stronger for him?
And it is in knowing that you can't get mad at them, they are hurting too, in their own way, even more than the bereaved can admit. Sometimes I imagine all the rollercoaster of emotions I had; have. The joys, the anger, the surprises, the betrayals, the hopes and wonder how father's must be heightened.
It is in knowing that there is nothing you can do for him, other than being there.
To a large extent we are victims of the facade of stoicism so commonly displayed by African men; strong, all-knowing and always in control. Mental health and stress are rarely spoken about in our cultures, often seen as either a white man's problem or at the very least, a rich man's problem. There is indeed a majority of Kenyan politicians who deal with their stress like the proverbial ostrich, hiding their head in the sand, and hoping the danger will go away, until it doesn't. Maybe my father's ability to accept and move on is what sand is to an ostrich.
Naming the Sins of our Fathers
On June 8, 2015, I stood in a labour ward waiting for our bundle of joy. When she arrived, shortly after 10.30 a.m., I was beside myself with joy, totally overwhelmed.
Those of a religious disposition know the kind of emotions one goes through when God answers prayers. For the longest time, I prayed to God for a daughter to name after my late mother. The first glance at her, revealed a double stroke of luck; she was not only a girl, but she took after my mother.
I stood in the corridors overjoyed, painfully aware that in under two months I would leave the young one to go for my graduate studies in the United States. I was torn. I wanted to spend every waking moments with the girl for two reasons: Biologically she is my daughter and culturally, she is my mother too. Secondly, I never had a father, and to me, this was a divine chance to try and be the best father she would ever want. Sure, against my will, going for grad school proved to be most stressful experience, I was so depressed in New York Streets that I barely coped with the class room pressure. Upon graduation, I boarded the next plane home and spent the next 10 months bonding with my little girl. It was the most fulfilling thing in the world.
Kids are so sweet. Makes me wonder why men run away from them.
I have never seen my father. I do not know if he knows that I exist. I do not know if he is still around or he died a long time ago. Whether he is still in active employment or long retired. I do not know if I have other stepbrothers and sisters, and God-forbid, if our paths have ever crossed, without recognising our common bond.
As a reckless teenager, I once angered and offended one of my guardian aunts. Minutes later she fished some photo of the purported father for a reason I have never known. He was tall, wearing those greenish-blueish suits. I do not remember the face, for I was angry and teary, but I remember a benign smile that revealed nothing.
I have managed to numb any feelings towards the old man. I decided to live with the fact that I will never know my paternal heritage. Whether they had murderers in the family, a history of suicide, or any genetical disorder that shows up every third generation, that I somehow escaped, but may recur in my children or grand-children is something time will tell.
If not for that photo, I will never have bothered with the thought of my father. But that photograph planted an element of doubt, and every other day I dream of some demon possessing me to pay for a want-ad in a newspaper or embarking on search for him.
Indeed, those wakeful nights, when my insomnia gets in the way, which is far too often, I do think about him.
Why did he leave? I want to assume that I tick all the boxes. I am everything an African father would have been proud of: My report form was always impressive, I made it to the best university in Kenya and a top Ivy League university in America. I married in good time and there is a granddaughter to parade. Stuff that most parents cherish. Why did he leave?
In those idle moments, like when stuck in Mombasa Road traffic with a dead phone, I imagine tracking him down to a village, maybe he is in a drinking den, maybe he found Jesus and is now a church elder…Or he died long time ago, and in that eventuality, I will have closure. Chances of making that resolve are closer to nil and zero.
My father was a baby boomer. Kenyan baby boomers, have been a spectacular failure. Certainly, there are decent and noble men from that generation, but if they were a class, they would be D-grade. And this is not because my father took off.
Despite the gift of formal education, exposure, travel, and interactions with the outside world beyond their ethnic enclosures, the men from this generation have been underwhelming. Nobody summed up who they are better than Laureen Wesonga, a Chevening Scholar,
"I call them(the) independence generation, they are petty, they are greedy, they are insecure. Woe unto you if you are younger, smarter (and female), am like who traumatized this lot? And it doesn't help that they are running the country at the moment. That's why our country is an orgy of pettiness, incompetence, general mediocrity. That's why there is a hostility to intellectual investment and output."
My father's generation has contributed virtually nothing meaningful to the country, whether politically, intellectually or economically, other than pillage, obnoxious if primitively grabbing and accumulation of wealth. Young people now have arrested development because the elders ate the food even made for babies.
Most of them still hold positions of power and influence in various institutions, which they run like their personal fiefdoms, giving young people no chance whatsoever to prosper. It is this generation that imposes a fine Sh 5,000 to graduate job seekers who are yet to start their Higher Education Loans Board payments. It is the generation that requires young job seekers to spend KSh 5,000 in useless paper work as a perquisite when seeking government employment. The generation that is likely to deny a woman a job or a promotion because she said NO to their advances, and just as quick to unethically promote an undeserving one who cooperated. And this is the same attitude they approach fatherhood. Some were reckless drunks. Some married two or three wives when they could not sustain the one.
Amoral. Unethical. Disgusting.
In the circa 1980s, men could scatter their wild oats and disappear. Today, you will not run away from Child Support, however far or fast you run. Courts, tabloids, bloggers and social media will hold you accountable. Absentee fathers live in mortal fear of the law catching up with them.
Some of us were unlucky to have grown up without our fathers, even though we turned up fine. Or did we?
What was worse, was having a father who was absent emotionally. As a bare minimum, children expected of their fathers: the provision of the basic life needs like school fees, being present and the occasional pat on the shoulder. Visiting us in school, buying a gift was more than enough. All we needed.
The generation of our fathers came in three shades: The loving, generous and kind (a few and far between). Secondly, were the patriarchal tyrants who respected neither their wives nor their children (their daughters eloped at the earliest opportunity, if only to be safe and sons ran away from to the nearby town for menial jobs) And thirdly, were the colourless and incompetent, who left their wives to do all the parenting (quite a pathetic lot, mostly married a second wife, or kept a mistress abandoning their first family).
There is nothing to say about cool and responsible fathers.
But the latter two, let's unpack them.
I have talked to a good number of friends on how the relationship with their fathers is shaping or has shaped their attitude to life and especially towards parenting.
It is surprising how dissatisfied most people are towards their fathers (I have two rare cases where people are dissatisfied with their mothers, but that is for another day). I know a few who have had to physically confront their fathers for continuously being abusive, disrespectful and violent towards their mothers. They drew the line, curses notwithstanding, and held their old men by the collars and gave them a piece of their mind.
There are fathers who did bad things because of ignorance. But more annoyingly were those who knew better but still run away, or those who stayed, but were abusive and the only memories we can conjure of them are the dark days they put us through. Most of my peers never quite forgave their fathers or are very ambivalent towards them.
Women who grew up with abusive fathers are very skeptical of men and can be unduly cautious. Men, either chose to be the exact opposite of their fathers, or the trauma of the abuse leads them into alcoholism, violent behaviour and seeking cheap sex to fill the void left by the father's folly.
But to decide to chart a different path from your father's requires a higher cognitive ability to forgive the old man and to learn from his wrongs.
My peers, those with a basic university degree and those who aspire to a quiet middle-class life are doing things differently: Most are opposed to violence against women. Most love their children and lately, the sex of the child is not an issue, unlike in the past where giving birth to a daughter was deemed a sign of weakness in some cultures, like where I come from.
Certainly, my generation has been gifted with hindsight, unlike our fathers who grew up under the worst possible circumstances. Women of our generation are enlightened, know better and hardly want to settle for less. We are almost equal and many actually bring the bacon home.
Most women I have spoken to who grew up with abusive fathers always sympathise with what their mothers had to go through. And want to lead different lives: they are assertive, ambitious, keen to have their money and property, just in case a man goes beast mode on them. They expect us men to provide in the traditional sense, but they are not entirely dependent on men. They have backups in chamas, in churches as well as private and secret investments. Their ability to pull resources quickly, means they acquire a head start over their male counterparts.
Women learnt from the tribulations of their mothers and took charge of their lives. Many men never received guidance or the security of inheritance from our fathers and we stumble and falter a lot. We have hardly any role models to look up. Religious leaders lost their moral voice. Politicians have nothing to teach us, but to steal, grab and be stupid, generally.
Our fathers were born somewhere between the Second World War and during the struggle for independence from the British colonialist. They were too young to be victims of the British brutality but growing up with absentee parents took its toll on them. They went to school in the independent Kenya. School was designed to prime them up to work in factories and the corporate sector, a drastic change from the agrarian way of life, that they grew up under.
They grew up knowing that the place of women was in the kitchen. They grew up knowing that children were merely a source of labour.
After the independence of Kenya, the world was gripped in a meaningless Cold War that consumed another 30 years of neo colonialism with different actors. The Cold War period gave birth mediocre and cognitively challenged dictators, propped up to oversee several countries. They suppressed freedoms, especially academic freedom. Anyone who subscribed to a contra ideology to that of the paymasters' paid the ultimate price. In late 70s and early 1980s, a collective of university intellectuals were forced into exile. They included reputable scholars like Ngugi wa Thiong'o (ironically settling in the Capitalist West, when he was accused of being a socialist), Micere-Mugo, Korwa Adar, James Ogude, Nixon Kariithi, Job Kibii among others. They left a huge intellectual gap that was filled with cowardly conformists.
So, our fathers grew up suppressed and repressed. By the time they were coming of age, President Moi had taken over and an attempted coup had turned him into him a dictator who ushered in a totalitarian chapter. The impact of living in a one-party regime turned our fathers into cowardly, insular and extremely selfish individuals with self-enrichment as the only goal. They have a zero sense of accountability and responsibility whatsoever. They are guided by base instincts, hardly proactive but very reactive to any perceived threat to their dominance. They want to grab all the land, even riparian zones. They have mismanaged public institutions raiding coffers and channeling the loot to private facilities they own, to profit from the provision of essential services such as education, health and security. They lack is a sense of the future, which defies logic.
Why do they steal so much?
Why the common excuse of "ni watoto tunatafutia."( I steal for my children)?
I am not mad at the generation. For they are blind and severely handicapped due to the circumstances they grew up under. But I still habour some resentment. They fouled and soiled their children who inherited the bad habit of greed and cast aside the brilliant ideas capable of transforming Kenya.
Their time at the top of the food chain has been nothing but disastrous and the ramifications will affect us, at least for the next three decades. Think of the foreign debt, the unprecedented level of corruption that make the Moi and the Kibaki regime seem incompetent in their corruption. Look at what they are doing to higher education (lecturers have been on strike for 10 months in the last one year). The health sector is in shambles. The main referral public hospital Kenyatta is always in the news for all wrong reasons. Hospitals in the rural parts of Kenya no longer stock basic medical supplies like anti-venom. The agriculture sector has no remedy in sight for the armyworm invasion ravaging maize fields around the country. Farmers no longer receive subsidized fertilizers yet well-connected individuals can always import maize from Mexico overnight. Need I mention the pain and agony of sugar cane farmers.
I see young people embracing their responsibilities differently. Men from the 1980s, aided by the power of social media to reunite friends are forming high school WhatsApp groups and visiting their former schools, organizing to donate books, build facilities and give back in whatever way they can.
We understand the importance of philanthropy and the value of altruism. We recognize there is something bigger than ourselves, or our families. The need to leave the world, a better place. We are planting trees where the baby boomers cut them down for development or settlement.
We question things. We do not blindly support regimes. When we think our political leader has erred we tell him off, such as we did with Raila Odinga recently. His latest handshake moment has met a lot of hostility. When Moses Kuria's loose mouth utters something vile, we clap back.
Where the baby boomers and Gen Xers choose silence, we raise our voice, even as police brutality has become increasingly sanctioned. I remain hopeful that our generations and young people will get it right as the baby boomers and Gen Xers age and leave us alone.
Good riddance.
maWinnie: Lessons in Feminist Approaches to Storymaking
It was a gathering of women. Mothers, sisters, daughters and wives of black male ex political prisoners. They had been gathered at Cowley House, Cape Town by the Robben Island Museum to share and document memories and stories of their Journeys to Robben Island Maximum Security Prison.
Cowley House, became a remarkable haven for those, whom under very difficult and often brutal circumstance were granted permission to travel and be in Cape Town for the sole purpose of visiting loved ones on the island. An arduous journey. It required bureaucratic application processes; permissions from various authorities including Prison Services, permission from Homelands authorities to travel, permission to be in Cape Town or the Western Cape, accumulating the funds to take a bus or train of some means of transport to the Cape…and finding accommodation in which to stay overnight. Many of the women had themselves served under house arrest and detention, been brutalised by the apartheid state in its attempt to break the spirits of those who chose the path of resistance and or, whose family members had done so.
(I recall so vividly tata S, an ex political prisoner and survivor of the Lesotho massacre, with heartbreak laced in each of his words and silences, explaining just how it shattered him to see his wife in the prison visitor space after many years of separation. She had been starving as he, the main breadwinner was no longer able to support the family. And so emaciated and skeletal she had somehow found a way to visit him and reassure him of her support.)
maWinnie agreed to participate at the gathering on one condition. On arrival at Cowley House for the Women's Reference Group, she drew us aside and requested a quiet private meeting space. She said that, as her story was already very well documented, recorded and shared within the public domain, she wanted the day to be about the other women who were present, not her. She impressed upon us that the women had stories which were layered with hurt and humiliation and that possibly, the greatest hurt was being ignored by history.
And for the duration of that day's exchange, I observed maWinnie, gently and compassionately deflecting attempts to defer to her. Calmly prodding and reminding each of the women gathered of a particular incident or event which had taken place on their journeys. And most of all, I observed how she kept silent, attentively listening.
There are a number of lessons and affirmations which remain invaluable to me to draw on and reflect in practice as a feminist 'memory maker'.
Firstly, how disciplined and comfortable silence grants permission for others to speak and share intimate stories of pain and hardship. That even though the Listener or Observer may have book knowledge or an idea of 'the Story', it was important to remain silent and have the Speaker albeit slowly, painstakingly tell their own story. This takes great discipline. The ability to be quiet and trust that the process of storytelling will unfold as it should. And on that day, it most certainly did.
Secondly, that 'standing down' from power and influence vested in one as an individual, institutionally or historically, for whatever reason, is a necessary step in putting together the intricate narratives of the collective. That merely 'saying' that one is there to listen and understand is not enough, it needs to be a conscious practice. And requires the ability to recognise the power vested in one as an authority or knowledgeable one. And I continue to wonder about this as we see standoffs between groups, the creeping in of that nefarious combination of power+judgement into discourse and relationship. And the discomfort of living within contradictions and questions, as opposed to answers found within ideology alone. As the day progressed, and the stories unravelled, it became clear that the individual stories made up significant parts of a whole. That what appeared to be quite ordinary was in fact rather extraordinary. And that what appeared contradictory was complementary.
Thirdly, I was struck by just how much maWinnie was an Archive and clearly consciously so. She was a formidable memory bank of stories, places, people, events and emotions. And that her 'paying attention', being wholly 'present' requires a certain kind of Listening for and in between words and silences.She was able to gently remind someone of an incident and a reaction to an incident as if it was not a decade or two past. I still wonder whether in the poverty of our her-story making process as a nation, is this absence of the emotive or visceral or rather, an inability to read it when it is present. And that the damage done by the exclusion of women's stories is more harmful because of history's form which attempts to erase feeling and emotion.
Fourth, that being kind, gentle and compassionate are parts of maWinnie's whole. That the formidable, fiery and sassy is not a juxtaposition or contradiction thereof. That living in the landscape of the 'whole' story, whether the individual or collective requires an ability to hold opposites in unison, and thus to include the seemingly irreconcilable. She suggests to me, that living life whole requires living within contradictions and finding a space for the unresolved. I cannot imagine what the "not knowing" when her husband, partner, comrade would be released did to her soul. I do know, that when 27th April 1994 came around, many of us walked to the polling stations as if in a daydream. The reality or realness of something which was spoken of in hope fuelling slogans such as ;"Freedom in our Lifetime" too overwhelming to comprehend on any rational level.
And in storytelling and memory making – being able to hold these unresolved questions and contradictions, however tentatively or tenuously – reveals the Truth in ways which awaken Hope and Imagination.The polar opposite to this would be a shutting down or closing off and stagnation which half – truths provide[1].
As I contemplate once again, how the very act of remembering and living the legacies of those, such as maWinnie requires us to gently and with respect, interrogate, investigate and possibly represent, the values and principles they lived by in our very rendering of their memory.
[1] We see this in countless exhibitions or memorialisation projects where half-truths about World War One and Two largely exclude the participation of people of the South and so the absence of stories; of the Mende, the deepening desire for Freedom from colonial rule, the place of women in science and technologies which aided the war efforts and so on, reiterates prejudice, racism and abject misogyny which at least parts of these war efforts was attempting to stop.
Now I Know That I Knew Nothing About Winnie Mandela
First of all, let's dispel the myth that ignorance is bliss. It can be. States of unawareness can be a cushion, feathered down and fuss-free, when one needs a respite from the little annoyances of life. But ignorance is not a day-to-day frivolity that many of us, who have always lived on this continent and know the violent repercussions of one misstep, can afford. Clearly there was not a lot of bliss prancing about during the apartheid years and Black people just conveniently forgot to throw a celebratory parade. To call what happened to the majority population during this regime anything less than what it was – a brutalizing of human spirit – would be a supreme disservice.
So let's rather call ignorance a journey. A series of stops and way-stations where, the passenger, draws ever nearer to something approaching the truth. Or a truth, whatever the case may be. You may, of course, decide to stay where you are. Never exploring, never wandering or wondering, and thus never knowing. There is a smug comfort in knowing that one day the world will come to you, because that is the pervasive and diffusive nature of all things human. The truth may one day find its way to you. But when you're Black and female, it's more likely to kick down your door than knock.
I met Mam'Winnie in stages.
Stations. Stops. Dilutions and exaggerations.
My earliest memory of hearing the name 'Mandela' was in the mid-eighties. My parents had a staggered bedroom, with a main bedroom that opened onto a dressing room-foyer where us children were sometimes allowed to play, listen to the radio and just watch our parents be parents in muted fascination. On a Liberian radio station is where I heard the song 'Free Nelson Mandela' by The Special A.K.A, which was quite a hit back then.
"Who is this Mandela man? Why is he…unfree?" I didn't even know what to call the opposite of liberty. The concept was very contrary to an ideal that every African and we Liberians especially enjoyed, or so my young mind believed. The only opposite of freedom and joy I knew of was BellehYalla. BellehYalla was our nation's worst prison, mythical and monolithic in the way it blocked out the sun in every child's imagination. People sang songs for criminals who ended up in such places?
My father went on to explain some of what life was like under segregation in South Africa, how Mandela was a freedom fighter in jail for a long time for trying to level the playing field for the Black citizens. I fired a lot of questions. My father was one to joke if the rare mood took him so surely he was joking now, about an African country where people had so little and could do even less. Didn't they own things, like land? Yes, apparently the country was theirs, but then White people came along and took it. But how could that be? Did White people often go around taking massive things like whole countries away and no one did anything to stop it? My father looked especially wry as he answered yes, it did happen all the time and when I was older and studying history, I would learn all the colourful ways how.
I remember one thing I could not wrap my head around: where was this Mandela's wife, while he rotted away for a million years? What was she doing in the meantime? My father cleared his throat and adjusted his clothes and muttered something about minding the children and keeping the home and waiting.
My mother, who tended to silently watch these occasional educational exchanges between my father and any one of us five children with a mysterious wry smile of her own, came over when he left the room to busy himself with something else. "She's helping in her own way," my mother soothed me, knowing I had the tendency to overimagine and get overwrought. "She's fighting how she can."
A few years later my own idyll was shattered, if indeed my country had ever truly been the beacon for Negritude and hope that it believed itself to be. The 1990 civil war had me exiled from home and confused about wars, politics and the courageously destructive statements men make. Several years and one too many new countries later, any political appetite I could have had was snuffed out. Coming to live in South Africa, Cape Town no less, as a postgraduate student perked up my interest somewhat. I got to look at a different sort of beast close up. Stories about apartheid came alive. I had learned in my many junior and secondary schools about Bantu homelands and the regularity with which children grew up without a constant imprint of their father because he was away somewhere. Swallowed by the mines, by the cities, by the struggle. I heard much of Robben Island; you had to, with the White tourists pouring in every summer and interrupting your delicious restaurant dinners with their typhoon of tears of how this lovely man had suffered so much and still he forgave. I did not visit that white rock prison until I had some years under my belt, until the Capetonian sunshine had properly baked the overindulgent Mother City into my skin. I wanted to really feel things when I went to Robben Island.
I did not, not much. It was interesting and educational, but not riveting and wrenching. Bear in mind, I considered myself a pretty jaded young woman by this point. Proximity dulls the knife even more. Robben Island was a major tourist attraction in my city and I had learned too much via osmosis to be well and truly, pearl-clutchingly shocked. I was going for the most part to treat my mother, who was visiting at the time. Most of all, it turned out that Robben Island was no BellehYalla. I expected dungeons and neck chains. But flushing toilets, separate cells, regular meals… My knowledge of the typical African prison had never evolved beyond "no mammal should be here", and justifiably so. But from the looks of things, all prisons were not created equally. Troupe Nelson had suffered, yes, but they'd had some dignity. As I studied the commemorative plaques on the walls, photos of revolutionaries in action, the sacrifice is not lost on me. Still, I looked around and wondered: where were the wives? Where was The Wife?
Stops. Stations. Titrations of truth.
Sometime during my Cape Town years, in the mid-2000s, a biography of Winnie Mandela was foisted on me. It was 'Winnie Mandela: A Life' by Anne Marie du PreezBezdrob, a popular one during that time. I was going to read it without prompting, really I was, but other books of a more fiction-bent, galvanizing nature kept getting in the way. The jaded young woman considered the nature of non-fiction too invasive to be reading material she sought out willingly. Autobiographies and biographies were heavy work of the navel-gazing variety, the payoff often too slim for my liking. I tended to steer clear. But the look on my best friend Inonge's face brooked no nonsense as she thrust it under my nose, after days of heavy hinting did not work. This was a book we as women, Black women, had to read. I could return to my silly crime and fantasy novels afterwards. Still, I did not immediately relent. Why did I need to know more about Winnie? I knew enough. She had done some important stuff, she was the ex-president's ex-wife. Wasn't she bitter now? Wasn't there a short Google page I could read with just the highlights, some ANC cliff notes? This felt like homework.
So I did some preliminary digging. There was a wealth of intriguing archival memorabilia and articles just a mouse-click away. One online photograph in particular struck me. Winnie in the 1960s, toting a metal pail of water, of something, in the township. So this was where she had been. Gone was the girl in the iconic wedding picture giggling beside her new husband, a girl who, let's face it, had no goddamn idea what she was getting into. No idea that a nation would start to look up to her in his absence. In her place was this woman forging herself under fire: raising kids alone, facing the daily grind of laundry and assembling meals and assorted etceteras, all whilst in the grip of a police state.
This was what being the satellite parent entailed. The power of notoriety and glory of mystique were never yours, not fully, not when national security perpetually kept your business in the street. You would never be a son of rebellion or sun around which revolutions revolved. The satellite stands vigil and waits. But satellites also absorb information and detonate strategically. The girl was a woman now, her body underneath her cheap polyester jersey softened by children, the stress of her day already shadowing her face. She looked so ordinary it was frightening, because I knew she was frightening. Any woman raising children alone and fielding threats on their behalf knows this reality too well.
She reminded me of my mother. That photo hit me hard.
So I read about the Nomzamo before the Winifred, and put the two together. The book was not without its flaws and omissions of nuance, but it gave flesh and breath and breadth to a woman I had not known, allowed myself to know, was in there. I read more, picked up information from her career over the years and blended colours to make a more complete picture. As I have matured, so have my empathy and understanding. My desire to be acceptable, to apologise like a good girl, to always have my interior world and motives understood are things I crush underfoot as many times as is required to keep my spirit intact.
I knew nothing of Nomzamo-Madikizela. But we journeyed out to meet each other, she and I.
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