Story telling by the fire place died when you died

Story telling by the fire place died when you died

Story time used to be the best time in the evenings. Children would gather around the fire place, whileuMakhulu(grandmother)  was getting ready and sitting in her comfortable position.  She would ask the younger kids to come around her. The older kids would sit further, bringing closer the younger kids. We would be drinking tea or milk with biscuits (which she only knew where they were).

Intsomi (stories) were meant to be told at night, well that’s what we believed in and that was exciting for us. Intsomi were not read from books, they were stories kept alive through the story telling of the generations.

 And if you decided to tell intsomi during the day, you had words you had to say, in order not to grow horns. My grandmother was a wise woman who told stories with morals at the end. She would tell intsomi, and then ask us what the moral of the story was. As young as I was, I always enjoyed raising my hand to answer that question. There was love in the way these stories were told to us, oh yes some were scary stories. As children stories about giant people (Amazim) used to be our horror stories. She would tell the story so you feel the chills down your spine.

I can never tell stories the way she did; I can never breathe life to each and every story the way she did. She never complained about being tired or how much work she had. She was a retired teacher, who still had former students come to her and listen to her stories.  Although I way young, the memories I carry of my grandmother’s intsomi were magical. They made a little girl feel like a princess.