It was with the heaviest of hearts that we set out to pay our respects to one of our crafters when we heard of the death of her husband.

On the journey to Roses’ home, we passed cows and goats wandering on the dirt road, passed a school where the children were spilling laughing out into the road. We got a little lost and asked a young man where Rose lived – We love that everyone knows everyone – and he pointed us down a small rocky road that looked like it led nowhere. Hoping my car would make it, we turned in and to our surprise we soon arrived at Roses’ homestead.  

The sight was beautiful. She had crafted a fence around her property that looked like a work of art- sticks of different sizes had been woven into a protective screen around several dwellings, The grass in the yard was neatly mowed and, in some areas, it was long and yellow, the sun shining softly through it. Surrounded by the hills of the eShongweni valley, I felt like we had stepped back in time to a traditional Zulu village. The cattle pen sat at the heart of the homestead, encircled by several traditional Rondavel homes and some square modern homes. 

Rose’s face was drawn with grief, yet she was happy to see us and embraced us all warmly. She led us into the neatest home you could ever imagine – I thought of my own home that I had left in its usual state of disarray!

She recounted the story of her husbands’ passing, that he was a good man, kept to himself, looked after his family and assisted in the community. He had been returning from a wedding where he had officiated, and as he reached the home gate, people were lying in wait and stabbed him in the stomach and slit his throat. She kept saying “they killed him as if he was a goat.” Two young children had found him and alerted the family. Rose and her son found him lying in the grass next to the gate.

She told us that she had worked hard, loved getting orders from Woza, and that with the money made at Woza, she saved little by little until she had saved enough to buy one goat and then another and another and soon there was a herd. Soon she was earning from beading and goat sales. She regaled us with stories of the early days when she first arrived at Woza Moya. These were happy memories for both of us, we laughed at the funny things she remembered, and then we would cry to as the pain of her loss bubbled up. She told us that her mother-in-law would say “why are you beading all the time!”, that she should “help with the chores”. Rose would say, “Paula needs this!” and that the mother-in-law was not fond of me.

For all that she had worked for and the ease that her family was enjoying now, it all felt hollow without her life partner. Sitting next to her I thought of all of God’s creatures that mate for life and my heart ached.

She kept saying how Woza Moya had helped her build her homestead, but I kept holding her hand and saying “no Rose, it was you and these hands that built this”.  Sitting with her and hearing her stories took me back to the very early days of Woza Moya and how when her and her best friend Happiness walked into my office in 2005 I nearly cried with joy, because Happiness and Rose, although young, were already highly accomplished bead workers, something we didn’t have in the early days at Woza. We had trained up our first crafters, whose beadwork was sometimes (mostly) wonky – we didn’t have the expert hands of Rose and Happiness. They were the early pioneers who helped us develop new products and loved beading. There was never a bead out of place. They also helped the other crafters who were struggling to get to grips with

beading. Just as much as Rose attributes her success to Woza Moya, we attribute the success of Woza Moya to her.

 Sitting in her room where happiness and sadness coexisted felt like a key turning in my heart. It reminded me of where we had come from and how far we had travelled. It also cut deeply, as Woza Moya has grown, I realised I had slowly distanced myself from what I love most: “humaning” the human connection!

It struck me that I had surrounded my heart with a fence, much like the one that surrounded Roses house, mine was made from all the misshapen events that had hurt and disappointed, and also the weight and volume of sad stories and pain carried by so many women. My problem has always been that I couldn’t just listen, I wanted to fix every problem, and it took a heavy toll on me.

 It’s in our DNA to care and love. Guarding my heart too tightly took away the very heart of what I do, and what makes me good at my job. How one finds a happy balance, I cannot yet say.

But in that place with Rose my heart cracked opened again, I was humbled by the love that poured out of Rose in her darkest hour to me, the love she had for me was overwhelming. I was humbled, I felt shame, ashamed, for not being present for so long. Presence is really our only gift we can give and its free.

We drove home contemplating all the lessons we had learnt from Rose, investing for our futures, family, love, loss and friendship. We all felt so full, we had gone there to uplift Rose, yet she had uplifted us.

 I went to work the next day a little more present and the hard nut of my heart open.

It’s been three months since her husband was murdered and there are still no suspects, no reason why he was murdered, no closure for the family.  

Told by Paula Thompson