Sister Africa's Story: Why I Read

Antelope Park, Zimbabwe

I love reunions. They make me cry, but man, I love reunions. There is so much joy and grief and pain all mixed up in a single embrace, as if a flood of all the past emotions away from this person are suddenly released. I've been through several reunions--reunions with family members, with returning service men and women, and of course we cannot forget Jake--more times than not, I cry.

Today, I think I stumbled across one of the most beautiful reunion scenes I have ever read. It was from Zenzele: A Letter for My Daughter by J. Nozipo Maraire, a book I'm reading for my African Literature class. The biography is a running dialogue from a mother to her daughter, consolidating all the stories, wisdom, and traditions Maraire wants her daughter to know in one place as Zenzele prepares to continue her academics in America. It is a beautiful blend of memories, anecdotes, and motherly concern and advice.

Maraire begins chapter seven telling Zenzele about the difficulties she perceived surrounding the black diaspora, until Sister Africa changed her perspective. It is Sister Africa's story that I am most interested in telling here.

Maraire met the African-American (originally named Mary William Smith) through her sister at an underground political meeting."There was something charming, fresh, and open about the girl. And so it happened that despite myself, by the time they reached my corner of the room and [my sister] stepped forth to introduce us, I was genuinely interested in meeting her" (Maraire 95). Maraire soon discovered the exceptional qualities of Sister Africa. She had traveled widely throughout Africa and endeared herself to many there, earning the name Sister Africa.

She'd come to Africa in search of her Nigerian father who left her and her white mother behind when she was young. She followed every clue she could glean of him. He'd apparently become widely known in the underground politics, but no one could divulge his whereabouts. Every time she heard where he might be, she traveled there only to learn he was gone again.

Many years later, Sister Africa had given up hope of ever finding him, but by now it held less sway over her. She had developed her identity as an African now. She didn't really need to find him, but she still admired him for being the great African thinker and revolutionary that everyone knew him to be. In South Africa, she was arrested several times, finally being sent to the Robben Island, a terrorist camp disguised as a disciplinary facility. There she met other revolutionaries and exchanged ideas with them.

One day, they brought in a high-profile revolutionary known all across Africa as Baba Africa (Father Africa). Baba Africa spoke to them on many topics, including a fruit analogy which Sister Africa took especial liking to. On her last day, he spoke to her, "Daughter, how came you to be here?" Awestruck by the fact that this great man whom she admired so much was talking to her, Sister Africa was speechless. "I have heard of your bravery," he encouraged her, "Keep up the struggle for a united, prosperous Africa; it is a dream worth fighting for. Your love of freedom makes you a true daughter of Africa."

Later, she has the following encounter with her friend Keki:
"He asked me about you and I told him you were from America originally. He was very impressed that you had given so much to the struggle."
"Really, Keki, you must have exaggerated greatly for him to take any notice of me."
"Oh, no, Sister Africa. He is fond of Americans. He is a Nigerian, you know, but he went to one of those big, rich famous American universities when he was young. Columbia, I think. Yes, he studied law there. There is a rumor that he was once married to an American woman, or was she Oriental? I cannot remember. He dropped everything for the struggle. They say he has traveled all over the continent" (Maraire 105-106).

My heart dropped like a stone when I fully realized that. Of course, I had known all along: Mariare told me that she eventually met her "old man" (101) and as soon as she mentioned the high-profile prisoner, I began to suspect. But my suspicious did not prepare me for the emotional impact of realizing it. It was so beautiful, I lost my words. All I could think was, "This is why I read literature." There are a multitude of reasons why people read literature--to relax, to be entertained, to escape. But I read literature to experience something beautiful. And when beauty is achieved through words, there is nothing comparable.

"Zimbabwe 27 01042011" by Dave Mulder  used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share-alike-Noncommercial license.Da