I watched her come out beaming from ear to ear. Her new skirt swayed back and forth in the brisk morning air. My eyes met hers, my Basotho mother who graciously accepted me into her family and treated me as one of her own.
"Lumela Ausi!"
"Lumela Me'! U phela joang?
"Ke phela hantle! Ouna?"
"Ke phela hantle!"
Our usual greeting. She was desperate for me to learn the local language and I took every opportunity to practice.
Through my broken Sesotho I said "your skirt is beautiful!" She smiled as bright as the sun and said "Me' Masipatti is beautiful!"
And she was right. She was beautiful. It wasn't just her flowing skirt swaying in the breeze that was beautiful. It was her personhood. It was the way she rose early in the morning to put the water over the fire for warm baths. It was the way she cared for my 2 year old little sister and dotted her with love and giggles and songs and the way she shined Ntate Ramabante's shoes before he would go into town for the day. Everything about her screamed beautiful. The children she raised, the two room house she tended to, the way she worked tirelessly to prepare a meal for the village after church.
And the way she loved me. She loved me as if I were one of her own-with the same tender care and compassion my own mother has adorned me with my entire life. The Friday before Easter came and she helped us prepare for church that morning. She approved our appearance and sent us up the hill for a Good Friday celebration. But she stayed behind. Because I always wanted to be with her I asked if she was joining that morning. She briskly shook her head no and in her limited English replied "I prepare birthday party." She had remembered that it was my birthday on that Good Friday and she was going to make it memorable.
While we were at church she called in favors from the entire neighborhood. I came home to a birthday party I will never forget. Cake, chips, soda, sweets, and decorations lined the borrowed table, and the whole village was there to celebrate my 25th year of life.
Mei embraced me in a tight hug and whispered in my ear "ke rata Ausi Puleng Mochela" (I love sister Puleng Mochela-my Basotho name.) I squeezed her back and replied "ke rata Mei Masipatti, kea leboha!" And I meant it. I thought back to her beautiful swaying skirt in the mountain breeze the week before and remembered how truly beautiful she was, and how much more beautiful my life had become because of her loving presence in a tiny village in the mountains of Lesotho.
