In 2022, just three days after my father’s sudden passing, I did something I didn’t even understand: I packed my bag, put on the strongest doek I could find, and headed to a place I’d never been before — ku-Gatyana.
Why? Because when life breaks your heart, sometimes the ancestors send you packing. Literally.
Grief didn’t just knock on my door — it broke the whole thing down. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I was crying in public and speaking to God and my ancestors like they were on speed dial.
I needed a lifeline, a break, a sign — anything. At that point in my life, I didn’t even take ancestors seriously. I thought spiritual talk was for older people or those in white garments. But life has a funny way of humbling you.
When the world turned upside down, it was the ancestors who called — loud and clear. And that’s how I landed in the hills of Willowvale.
Enter Tatomkhulu Mzoliso and Tatomkhulu Sabelo — the duo I now call my spiritual grandfathers and lowkey comedic angels. These men didn’t know me from a bar of soap, but the minute I arrived at the home of Bab’uXesibe (the one and only Mr. Yanga Zaula), they treated me like I was royalty who just forgot her crown. (These two legends borrowed me the blue blanket I am covered with, in the pic)
They didn’t just offer me a bed — they gave me rest. Real rest. The kind you don’t get in Joburg traffic or toxic relationships. They gave me food (even though my appetite was lost somewhere in my grief), and most importantly, they saw me.
Not the broken girl. Not the orphaned daughter. They saw the woman I was becoming. And in their sweet, matter-of-fact way, they let me know:
*"You’re strong, sisi. You don’t even know who you are yet. But you will."
And then came the iconic request:
“Sithengele iParle-Parley mntanam.”
Yes. That wine. Township holy water. Liquid laughter.
We cracked it open like we were toasting to ancestors and unspoken healing. That night, in an unfinished guest house, surrounded by dust, bricks, and pure love, I laughed until my stomach hurt. And for the first time in days, I felt alive.
The next morning, they drove me around like I was their long-lost granddaughter on a mission. No questions, no complaints — just kindness on wheels. They didn’t owe me a thing, and yet, they gave me everything I didn’t know I needed.
Fast forward to 2025, and I returned to Gatyana. This time with a little more grace, a little less emotional chaos, and a deep desire to say thank you. But when I asked about Tatomkhulu Mzoliso and Tatomkhulu Sabelo, I was met with silence that said it all.
They were gone.
My heart didn’t just break — it sobbed. These men were more than helpers. They were anchors. Guides. Sacred comedic relief in a season of unbearable loss. Their passing hit me like a second wave of grief, but I know now: they’re with me in every ritual, every prayer, every win.
They were the first to name my gift. The first to say, “Girl, you’ve got something special.” And now? I walk in that truth every day.
When I first came in 2022, EzamaXesibe Guest House was a work-in-progress — bricks, scaffolding, and ancestral dreams under construction. But even in that raw state, it sheltered me. It was dusty, echoey, and sacred.
Now? Two and a half years later, she’s giving rural luxury. Walls are up, windows sparkle, and the energy? Impeccable. It’s not just a guest house — it’s a healing portal. The kind of place that holds you while you remember who you are.
To Bab’uXesibe, Mr. Yanga Zaula — my real-life Uber driver of destiny and gatekeeper of grace — thank you. To Tatomkhulu Mzoliso and Tatomkhulu Sabelo — I laugh louder, pray harder, and walk stronger because of you.
To Gatyana — you weird, beautiful, mystical land — thank you for catching me when I fell apart.
I came seeking peace for my father’s soul.I left with my own restored.
I didn’t just find shelter.
I found joy.
I found a spiritual GPS.
I found myself — again.
And no, I will never forget.
(Also, someone please pour a glass of Parle-Parley in their honour. Those gents would want it that way.)
