Gwen Lister - Comrade Editor: On life, journalism and the birth of Namibia

Memories in sepia

Smile, my mother told me, and my five-year-old self did so reluctantly.

ITS A STILL and oppressive evening. Clouds are building, as they do for days before it rains, but theres no relief yet from the heat of the Namibian summer. However, it cushions me in an appealing warmth. I squat down in front of a trunk filled with memorabilia. Wryly, I realise that Ive begun to lose the suppleness of youth.

Tracking back over decades to discover how and why my activism and journalism roots were nurtured, I sift through childhood keepsakes, and come upon an old black-and-white studio photograph. Discoloured with age, it shows a shy and diffident girl of about five, with neatly cut hair and bangs, chin tucked into chest, eyes wide open, but seemingly focused on an inner world. How did she become me, I wonder, marvelling at my sudden memory of the red-collared dress, home-sewn, with neatly embroidered white flowers. I can picture my mother off camera, saying Smile, Gwen. Why? I must have asked, as I was clearly reluctant. One of the many questions I asked as a child, a precursor perhaps to a life in journalism.

At that time, we were living in East London, the town where I was born in December 1953. But we did not stay there for long. My father worked for Barclays Bank, and was transferred regularly, so I have scattered memories of a childhood spent in many different places in South Africa. Later, after I had left home, my parents also spent several years in what was then known as South West Africa. When my brother and I heard the dreaded word transfer, we knew wed soon be off to somewhere else. We would put down tentative roots, shake off our reserve and make new friends, only to find ourselves back on the road to different surroundings, strange schools and unfamiliar houses that never quite became home.

Both my parents were born and raised in the Eastern Cape. My father, an only child, had received an elite education at St Andrews College in Grahamstown. A good-looking man, with a neatly trimmed moustache, he had inherited my grandmothers charm, and was well-liked by just about everyone.

Dark-haired and vivacious, my mother, Joan, was only twenty when she gave birth to me, and my father just four years older. Her early working career as a secretary was cut short when she met my father and had me soon after, and she became a stay-at-home mom. Life must have seemed relatively simple, and full of promise. Over time, however, my father developed a weakness for alcohol a constant feature, and hazard, of a career in banking at that time that increasingly affected their relationship. This, in turn, would leave its imprint on my life as well as those of my siblings John, two years younger than me, and Gillian, who was born nearly a decade and a half later.

At that time, my paternal grandparents John Clifford and Alice Maude Lister also lived in East London. Born and raised in Yorkshire, they had moved to South Africa shortly after World War One, settling in the Eastern Cape, where my grandfather entered the local wool trade. In fact, my grandmother was the person I was closest to for the best part of my youth. An avid reader, constantly surrounded by books and English magazines like Country Life and The Tatler , she was accomplished and efficient, skilled at cooking, needlework and bridge. Genteel is a good way to describe her. In my young eyes, her East London garden was a floral wonderland filled with sweet scents and secret nooks and crannies. Id follow in her wake, asking questions as she moved among the hydrangeas, her gloved hands making flowers grow and bloom as if by magic.

When my grandfather retired, they moved to a flat in Rondebosch, in Cape Towns southern suburbs. I lived with them for a while in my early teens, when my parents were transferred in the middle of a school year, and when I studied at the University of Cape Town. My grandmother remained calm when others fell apart. Not physically demonstrative a trait we had in common I nevertheless knew she cared deeply about me. Always gracious, I dont believe I ever heard her raise her voice in anger, although my grandfather irked her frequently, especially with his pipe-smoking habit which she detested. A corpulent and jovial Yorkshireman with a wicked sense of humour, he would fall asleep in his armchair with the pipe hanging from his mouth. The ash would scatter as he dozed, burning tiny holes into his shirt and pants, which he did his best to hide from her. When it happened, hed wink at me, telling me hed ink in the marks. John, Gran would remonstrate as she picked over his clothing, youve fallen asleep with your pipe again. Dreadful habit.