A requiem for Tshwenyego
berry heart | Monday May 25, 2026 06:00
There are those who give birth by blood and by bone, and those who give birth by spirit alone.
Kgomotso Tshwenyego-spirit her throne
was a mother who mothered where love had grown.
She gathered the broken, the bruised, and the bent,
with gentle, glad hands that knew what they meant.
She corrected with kindness, not a cruel comment sent, she shielded in silence her shelter unspent.
And she loved us, the artists, the restless, the raw, in the difficult, truthful, unbreakable way for we are fire and flood, fever and flaw, gifted and grating, both night and both day.
Brilliant but broken, we storm in our chests,
dreamers who drown in our own wild requests.
And Mama Kgomotso knew all of our tests-
She read us like psalms; she laid us to rest.
She knew when to roar for us, proud in the light, and when to pull close in the velvet of night:
“My child,” she would whisper, “make your spirit right.
Fix yourself gently. Shine bravely and bright.”
Not hatred-oh never. But love that saw through
the chaos to greatness, the gold in the glue.
She mothered a generation: the many, the few, who searched for a self and a shelter that knew.
To Charma, to Masi, to Troy, to the effervescent Jujuvine, to Motswafere’s fire, to each aching guest she became a deep mirror, a warning, a nest, a voice and a vision, a home and a test.
Today, we don’t mourn just an actress who played. We mourn a great tree, in whose shadow we stayed.
And when such a tree falls, the light is betrayed, the sun becomes sudden, the comfort will fade.
But mothers of spirit do not truly die.
They live in our discipline, learning to fly. In the way we now walk, in the standards held high, in the courage they carved when we wanted to cry. And somewhere in Heaven, I know this is true
She’s correcting the angels, arranging the pews.
She’s saying, “Stop that nonsense. You know what to do.
Focus your gift. Make it sacred and new.”
So, rest now, Mother. Your children still stand. Because you held our spirits with your own two hands.
We rise on your rhythm, we walk on your land, a forest of artists, both wild and well-planned. Rest, Mother of Artists. Your name shall not end.
You birthed us by spirit. We’ll carry you, friend.
*Yours, Daughter of Spirit