 |
|
The other day, after swimming class, my daughter asked me to help her dry off. What started as a simple post-swim routine turned into something deeper, a conversation about puberty. My eight-year-old, this beautiful girl who still loves to play, imagine, and be silly, was worried that the changes coming would steal her childhood away. In her voice of concern, she said, “I am not excited about wondering whether I like tampons, period cups, or sanitary towels.” I could absolutely relate to her because, even as a grown-up, finding the right sanitary towel is still a cat-and-mouse game of trying different brands until we find something worth the steal. And yet, in this whole conversation, I missed the voices of older women in my family who would have chimed in to support this little girl as she navigated this part of her life.
As an African woman living abroad, far from my grandmother, mother, and aunties, I felt the weight of that moment acutely. I realized how much we've lost in this diaspora, this distance, this digital age. It is unfortunate that my daughter cannot have the collective wisdom of the women in our family, the matriarchs who would naturally guide her through this transition. Instead, it's just me, trying to fill gaps I never had to fill before. These thoughts have spilled out of my current research on re-gendering historical epics, focusing on the film Shaka iLembe and how the restructuring of narrative power, by elevating women's identities and voices, shapes its narrative.
The missing matriarchs
Growing up in Africa, a girl's transition into womanhood was never a solo journey. It was held within a community of women, grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and older cousins. These matriarchs didn't just teach you biology; they taught you who you were, who you could be, and how to hold onto your joy even as your body changed. Within traditional African cultures, women serve as custodians and sustainers of cultural values and virtues, wielding influence that shapes generations. As a child raised by both maternal and paternal grandparents, I only realized later how much time with them shaped, influenced, and prepared me for the person I have become. I remember walking on the farms with my grandmother, and whenever a plane would grace our skies, she would tell me that wherever the plane went was as far as I was meant to go in life. Several years later, as I pen this article in my office in Eugene, Oregon, as a research student, I can only attest to such manifestations of her utterances.
But generational gaps, digitalization, migration, and globalization have widened the distance. Today, many young girls face this transition alone, or worse, they absorb messages from social media and peers that tell them puberty means losing themselves. They're convinced it means trading childhood for a premature maturity they're not ready for. My daughter expressed exactly this fear: that she'd have to stop being a child. Shaka iLembe superimposes these matriarchal roles on the screen as a reminder of how essential they are to the growth of every child, in this case, the African child, who becomes my unexpected teacher on this. The film, set in the 1700s, tells the story of King Shaka's rise to power, but more importantly for me, it shows the pivotal role of the women around him, particularly his mother, Queen Nandi.
 |
Ntando Zondi as Young Shaka and Nomzamo Mbatha as Indlovukazi Nandi in Shaka iLembe. Photo Credits:tvmzansi |
Nandi's journey is one of fierce protection and unwavering devotion. She moves her child from kraal to kraal to ensure his safety, embodying the kind of protective love that a matriarch offers, not suffocating, but strategic, aware, always thinking several steps ahead about what her child needs. What strikes me most is this: Nandi doesn't make Shaka grow up too fast. She doesn't force him into manhood. Instead, she shields him, trains him, and guides him, allowing him to be exactly what he needs to be at each stage of his life. Unfortunately, Nandi’s protection of Shaka’s childhood becomes a sight for mockery amongst his peers, even his father, yet in his later years, he discovers that this protection becomes a powerful place to which he constantly returns to strategize and find wisdom in his leadership.
This is the matriarch's quiet superpower. She knows that puberty, those rites of passage which clearly define gender roles within African cultures, are not moments to rush through or dread. They're transformative, yes, but transformation doesn't mean losing yourself. It means becoming more fully who you're meant to be. Queen Nandi lets Shaka discover his connection to animals and nature, which he uses to save his father and other warriors during an elephant attack while hunting in the forest.
The wisdom of extended matriarchs: Mkabayi and Ntombazi
Shaka iLembe shows us that matriarchal influence extends beyond just mothers. There's Mkabayi, the great-aunt, a princess and kingmaker who wields profound influence through her wisdom and strategic counsel. Though she must defer to male authority in the formal hierarchy, her wisdom is sought, her words carry weight, and young people observe her navigating power with intelligence and grace. Mkabayi, played by Dawn Thandeka, exposes the role of the first daughter as the matriarch, whose position within the family is akin to that of the first male child. She never leaves the home, and her role as the custodian of culture becomes essential to the girls born into that family. As a first daughter myself, the weight of the shoes I wear makes me realize that, besides my daughter, I hold the rest of the daughters in tow should they come of age and need guidance as they navigate puberty.
Then there's Queen Ntombazi, portrayed as the keeper of family ambitions, the matriarch of her household who forged her path with her own hands. For young girls watching these figures, these aren't just characters on a screen; they're examples of what's possible. They show that being a woman doesn't mean accepting limits. It means knowing when to speak and when to listen, when to lead and when to guide. These are the conversations my grandmother and aunts would have with me, simply by being present, by living their lives openly. My father, perhaps in his wisdom, had a tendency to send me to stay with my grandmothers, most of whom were still working in different cities at the time, and some had retired in the village. There was always something new to learn during visits to the river, on the farms, while cooking in the smoky huts, and even at events like funerals and weddings, when it was easier to put a face to the names of some of the characters in their stories. I'm trying to recreate that now, but I'm doing it alone.
Waddling through this crisis
Here's what troubles me most: societal pressures have subjected women to a premature maturity based on the physical developments of puberty. We slowly deplete the child in girls, making them believe they must suddenly become young ladies, proper, careful, no longer wild, no longer free. My father, in his own wisdom, did not think that learning to cook was a bigger emergency than me spending time reading, acting out plays at the drama club in school, or even being part of church activities like camping. He whisked me away every time he had a chance to. Yet there was still a communication disconnect, particularly between my mother and myself about what was essentially important to my growth as a young girl: play or transition into an adult as soon as the first signs of puberty showed up. I still remember my first conversation with my mother when I first received my menses. It was a completely open and closed conversation, “You are now a grown woman. You must not play with boys.” This is also the last time my father tried whisking me away from the kitchen. How would my 11/12 yr old self have decoded such complex messaging?
Research confirms this is a real problem. Effective parent-child communication on issues related to reproductive health and identity is crucial, yet cultural norms, generational gaps, and traditional perspectives often create barriers to such conversations. But there's something deeper here: we're not just failing to communicate. We're allowing a false narrative to take over, that growing up means growing serious, that puberty is something to be ashamed of, that childhood must end. The matriarchs in Shaka iLembe knew something different. They knew that women could be warriors and mothers, powerful and tender, grown-up and still playful. They showed this through their own lives.
What I'm learning to tell my daughter
I want her to understand what the matriarchs in Shaka iLembe embody, that women play a significant role in shaping the destiny of the next generation. Her strength, her joy, and her childhood wonder are not things she'll outgrow. They're the foundation of who she'll become.
The matriarch's role, even from far away
As I sit with my daughter, living far from my own matriarchs, I'm trying to be what I couldn't be alone: the grandmother's wisdom, the mother's protection, the auntie's counsel. I'm trying to bridge the gap that distance has created. The matriarch's role in African child development during puberty transcends biology. It's about cultural transmission, emotional support, and modeling resilience. It's about showing young girls that they can hold multiple truths at once: they can grow and stay playful, develop and stay wild, become women while remaining girls.
Shaka iLembe reminds us of this legacy. The women in that story didn't raise their children in isolation. They were part of a village, a family, a tradition. But even when we're physically separated from that village, we can still access it. We can still teach our daughters what those matriarchs knew: that you are not diminished by your body's changes. You are expanded by them. You become more yourself, not less.
A message to diaspora mothers like me
If you're reading this and you, too, are far from the women who raised you and your mother, know this: you can still be a matriarch to your daughter. You can still teach her that puberty doesn't steal childhood; it deepens it. You can still show her, through your own resilience and joy, that a woman can be many things at once. We're bridging the generational gap, one conversation at a time. And that matters just as much as being surrounded by a village.
The village might be far away. But its lessons? Those we carry within us.
