Joyce Andersen: My Mother, My Mentor
Pamela Dube | Tuesday January 19, 2016 14:28
I then went into a guilt trip, that of failed promises to visit her at her new place of abode, Kasane. Once in a while, I would call her, and lie through my teeth that “definitely Ausi Joyce, ntla etitaya ka thupana ke tle koo.” She knew I would not honour the promise, as, I had many times before, over decades, avoided that sit for ‘mother-to-daughter’ talk.
Mother-to-daughter? As I stated earlier, I had known Ausi Joyce all my life. She was there when I was born some donkey years back in Mahalapye, to her friend, Margaret Onkgopotse Dube. She had shared stories of my growing life, which at times my mum neglected to.
In person, I last saw Ausi Joyce at my mother’s funeral in August of 2012, in Francistown. Then, she spoke of a lifelong relationship, where it started in the 1960s when they were idealistic social workers. The first crop of social workers, who truly believed in not only nurturing and improving the well-being of their clients, materially, but also in building the total human-being, the family and the communities. She spoke at length that theirs, as young government employees, was a calling - not work - to destroy poverty structures to ensure that a person does not reach a level of hopelessness and just give up in life. Ipelegeng, she said, was a “help me uplift me and my community…” not “atlhama ke go jese”. A true development, social justice programme.
I laughed when Ausi Joyce’s friend, Ntombi Setshwaelo, spoke about this concept at her memorial service at UCCSA Broadhurst on Thursday. She had a name for it, and I forgot to write it down. But, as Ausi Joyce explained it to an attentive crowd in Francistown that chilly August morning, the disease, of hopelessness, destroys the poverty-stricken person so much that they move through life in a blur. They become the epitome of hopelessness. They live in a haze.
And as Mma Setshwaelo explained last week, in later years, Ausi Joyce wanted to see to the end of this disease of hopelessness, which she said was the ‘lost eighth’, of the known seven deadly sins. Maybe that’s the challenge those of us remaining should take up.
Back to the ‘mother-to-daughter’ talk. When I started in journalism back in the 1990s, my first published Mmegi story, was criticising Emang Basadi, the organisation she and a group of gender activists founded in the 1980s. It was a naïve, ill-informed position I had taken. Trivial really! I had written an opinion piece to the effect that they, the activists, were married women, ‘basadi ba Makgoa’ trying to influence us not to marry blah blah! She phoned my mother, and told her that, among others Alice Mogwe, was disappointed that Mma Dube’s daughter, who should know better had taken their critics’ position, and should be called to order. My mum told Ausi Joyce, “she is your daughter, talk to her.” Almost 30 years later, I was running away from that talk, and it was I swear because in our last chat, she said “Pam, I know you have evolved and turned the corner on the gender question, but we never had that talk over that Emang Basadi matter le basadi ba Makgoa”. Eish! I suppose I have dogged the bullet.
As I sat through her tributes on Thursday, I realised, genuine people will remain and be remembered so by different people of different levels at different times. I realised that the packed church had similar stories to share about this great woman, mother, gender and human rights activist, and mentor. In Mma Andersen, or Ausi Joyce, we had the same person. A fountain of knowledge, care, love and compassion. A woman who loved her country to the end. Thank you mother. Salute! Robala sentle Phuti!