I will never forget the day I walked into the living room of a new client. I introduced myself, and the client’s wife looked at me and said I looked familiar. I get that a lot. Then she asked, “Are you related to Aunt Benadé in Pretoria?”
I answered, “Yes,” in amusement. Of course, there are plenty of "Aunt Benadés" in Pretoria - more than 1,200 km away - but I knew I was related to at least one of them.
“Aunt Elsie Benadé?” she asked.
My amusement turned into astonishment. What were the odds?
“She’s my grandmother,” I said, to their amazement.
They told me they had worked with my grandmother when she was young and shared some stories from their time together - and boy, had they met Napoleon! That was my grandmother’s nickname. They had stayed in touch until right before my grandparents moved to Hermanus, and they still had a wooden coffee table my grandfather had crafted.
My grandmother was not the easiest person to get along with. She was a “right way or no way” kind of person, hence her nickname. And even though she was stubborn and strict, people from all walks of life adored her.
As a child, I had a fascination with books and paper - especially clean, white paper. I loved the feel of it, the smell of it. Whenever we visited my grandparents, my grandmother would give me old magazines, and they would keep me busy for hours as I doodled in them or cut and pasted from them. She taught me how to crochet, a skill I’ve sadly neglected over the years.
My grandmother made the most delicious bean soup, spaghetti and mince, and peach and fig preserves. Today, I regret not having had the time to ask her to teach me those skills. I was 13 when we moved to Mossel Bay, and I didn’t get to see her as often - until my grandparents moved to Hermanus, about three hours away. By then, I was already an adult, and whenever we visited, she would tell me stories from her childhood. One of those stories, about an encounter with a baboon, inspired a children’s book authored by my aunt, which will be released soon.
I have been writing for as long as I can remember, and only recently did I discover that my grandmother had also been a journalist for a time and had remained one at heart. With all her stories, I think she would have made a great writer. I don’t know why she never pursued it, but I know I inherited my love for writing from her.
My grandmother passed away on February 2, 2025, at the age of 94. After she passed, her old, worn Bible revealed the depth of her spirituality. She had owned it since childhood, and it was filled with notes, dates, and the names of everyone she prayed for. I’m a deeply spiritual person, and even after her passing, I continue to find inspiration from her.
Yesterday, my father gave me my grandfather’s Bible, which my grandmother had gifted him in 1967. Aged to a faded brown, the Bible is now one of my most cherished possessions. My father also gave me an old Bible he himself had used as a young man for street evangelism. Now, my nightstand holds four Bibles - all being used. Honestly, the stack probably makes me look like a religious fanatic!
This week has been especially difficult. When my grandfather passed 13 years ago, it felt as if a mighty tree had fallen. And now, my grandmother’s passing has left an overwhelming sense of loss. I genuinely lack the words to express the depth of what I’m feeling.
I just hope I can live with even half the faith she had.
Rest in peace, Ouma Elsie.
