This Old Lady

I am moved by this elderly lady that I have by chance run into. I am astounded by the greatness and power that I sense in her. At first sight she looks tattered, disheveled and tired, and my heart almost breaks at the pain I see in her eyes. But as I come closer to her and look into her eyes, I feel compelled to touch her hands, her face. I feel a strong sense of connection with her, as if in some way we are connected; by blood, by skin, by what, I can't tell. Her inner beauty is astounding, shining through the pain, the suffering that seems to surround her. Her eyes hold infinite layers of wisdom that I can't begin to fathom, amazing strength of which I can't figure its source, endurance that is nothing short of supernatural. 

And hope. 

Hope beyond all understanding, all worldly wisdom or knowledge. I am mesmerized by the intensity of her faith, and in the single moment that I stare into her eyes, i see it all. 

I see the years of suffering, of condemnation, darkness, hard labour, and human wickedness. 

I see the years of torture, of degradation, of hope lost. 

But that hope I see in her eyes. That hope overshadows every suffering she's ever gone through. Through that hope, I see a youthfulness in her that will never fade. It doesn't matter that she's old; I can tell that she has many more years to go, much more years than younger generations to come. 

I am too taken by this old lady, and so I ask her, "Why do you look so defeated, yet so hopeful? You seem so strong, yet so weak." 

She looks deeply into my eyes and whispers, "My child, what else is there to do except to keep hoping? Life should never be about giving up and giving in. Always fight for your rights, your freedom, your sense of being, even if fighting means you lose your life. Fight, and keep hoping that one day, one day, the sun will shine again. But until then, Hope is what will keep you going." 

I am so moved by the lady's words, i can find no words of my own, nor my voice. She turns to leave, and I force myself to speak before i lose sight of her. 

"What is your name?" 

She turns and smiles at me. "I have a lot of names, Child." 

"But what do they call you? What name distinguishes you?" 

She smiles again and begins to stagger away. As she rounds a corner, she turns to look at me. 

"Africa," she says. "Africa is what they call me. I am the motherland." 

I feel a warm chill go through my body, and i stand transfixed as tears stream down my eyes. Tears of joy, of sadness, of compassion. And of hope. 

I have met Africa. 

I have met the Motherland. 

I have met HOPE.