The mystery of a woman

I once observed a Zulu woman on a sidewalk, selling tomatoes and bananas. On her back was a baby, and clinging to her side a toddler. �There should be a monument to the spirit of a woman who will do whatever it takes to provide for her little ones,� I thought to myself.

And them my mind began to wonder. There is a strength in women that men cannot understand. The weakest of vessels can sometimes be cut from the hardest stone. I was thinking of my great-grandmother, Ruby May Foxcroft. A soft and tender British flower. She was travelling during the Anglo-Boer War when her finger got caught between two trucks as the train was shunted. After a long time when nobody came to her aid, she turned to a British soldier standing nearby.

�Tommy, have you got a knife?� she asked him.

�Yes Madam,� he replied.

�Then cut it off,� she said, beckoning to her finger.

�No Madam!� he gasped in great astonishment.

�Then hand it here,� she said.

Meekly he handed her the knife, at which she neatly cut herself free.

Women were tough in those days.

On the other side of the conflict my great-grandmother Maria Vermaak returned to a burnt-out farmhouse after the war. With great-grandpa still a POW and five little ones to feed, how was she to survive upon the open veld?

�My child,� my grandmother told me, �she caught duiker in snares. She cooked them right down to the smallest toe bone, but she did what it took to feed her babies��

There�s an arrogant power in mankind that is offensive. But then there is a quiet power of dignity and strength that is beautiful. Just like marble can be hard and soft at the same time. Therein lies the mystery.