From aspiring hip hop artist to insurance broker, to car crash survivor, to parish minister.... what hasn’t Waratwa Moroka done? Add to that that she is a devoted friend to many and a super sister to her two brothers – Waratwa seems to have a spirit that is ready to embrace life and the consequences of living!

Watch and Learn

I conducted my interview with her in a sweet little restaurant in Carlswald, Midrand. The air was wispy under the lush green tree where we sat, and I observed that it blew the collar of her white shirt delicately. Unaware of what I was looking at she said to me as she sat down, ‘where is your engagement ring?’ Then she chuckled. ‘Don’t mind me, I notice things that other people may not.’

‘It doesn’t bother me at all’ I said as I continued to look at her collar mildly dance to the flimsy breeze.

I soon began the interview and she stumbled a bit in the beginning. This is weird because I’ve known her as a bubbly acquaintance – I suppose that previously it was much easier to chit chat about random stuff than to face an afternoon of being scrutinised. But this was not about scrutiny. I explained to Waratwa that I admired her strength; and truthfully, I was curious to know how the girl I would bump into sipping a cocktail in some of Joburg’s trendiest spots became an Anglican parish minster.... So this piece would serve to indulge my curiosity while giving you a peak into Miss Amazing Moroka’s life.

Memory Lane

As she relaxed she told me that her mother died in a car crash when she was six years old. By the intensiveness in her eyes I could tell that this was her earliest memory of profound sadness. She recalled how her youngest brother, who was just a year and some months at the time, cried and cried and cried. ‘I still remember that cry as if it was yesterday, that is why I will always see him as my baby brother.’

The delicacy of her memory makes you want to cradle her in your arms – needless to say she is much taller than me so this would have been highly awkward. But not all of her memories were heartbreaking. She chuckled mischievously as she thought back to how her father (who lived and worked in Botswana at the time) would send her and her brothers pocket money, you know, to buy house hold staples.

‘Oh,’ she said ‘but we would buy ice cream, custard, jelly....’ As she listed the sweet treats I had some nausea trying to imagine this fridge full of lollies and cake and desserts of all sorts. They must have been on a constant sugar high!

Hip-Hop Star or Holy Star?

Perhaps it was this sugary energy that propelled Waratwa to be a budding Hip-hop artist. She painted a picture in my mind of her living in quiet Thabanchu, where she spent afternoons practicing her artistry in Mmabana with her friend. She rolled her eyes, simultaneously throwing her long dreadlocked hair onto her back ‘Do you remember DiDoc Martin!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yeah, I remember,’ I responded, not so surprised that she would sport them. She has such street style that I can see her in a pair even today.

Moving away from her past fashion eccentricities she continued, ‘after Matric, so that I can get in for free at concerts, I’d volunteer to be the opening act at concerts – I once opened for Boom Shaka!’

Damn! I thought to myself – she must have been really promising to open for a group that was really big back then.

For Waratwa, becoming a Hip-hop artist was something she really wanted to do– it wasn’t just for free entry at a university bash. So like anyone wanting to make it big in the industry, she came starry-eyed to the city of Joburg in 1999. 

Death of a dream

But soon the sparkle of her dream lost its shine due to the politics and backstabbing that is said to happen in the cutthroat music industry. ‘I started seeing how corrupt the industry was – so I moved to an 8 – 5 instead of selling my soul. As much as I wanted to be a performer I didn’t want to compromise myself.’

With her mind made up she swapped her baggy jeans for corporate attire. Waratwa worked as a broker for some of the leading insurance companies in South Africa. Waratwa is such a jolly person, for a little while I couldn’t imagine her being serious about life, death and the catastrophes in between – which sums up why we all need insurance, right?

But, on second thought, this is someone who understands the value of life and the severity of death. Tertiary qualifications aside, if you can tap into this emotional learning you can extend yourself to teach others – not only by selling them insurance, but providing them with sincere assurance too.  

Guided by God

Currently, as a parish minister she has to tap into her emotional reserves in order to guide and assist others to find their way to God. As she mentioned to me, at times she worries that she may not have the right tools to support people – especially those who have had traumas she cannot relate to e.g. rape. But she tries.

Still, I had to know. ‘Do you miss the money’ I asked, assuming that she must have taken a big pay cut to be a parish minister.

‘I never imagined myself being on the pay role of a church. I’m broke, but I’m happy. I’m at peace.’ She answered matter-of-factly.

‘Did your decision to be a youth minister have anything to do with your car accident?’ I asked further.

‘No’ she responded. A well of tears developed slightly in each of her beautifully big eyes. She took a bite of her juicy burger (I had a boring cheese sandwich) to distract herself.

‘Tell me about the accident,’ I provoked.

Driving into Danger

She started to recall the events of that day. How she had been home all day baking, from mid-morning to the evening. And as she lived with one of her brothers she grew increasingly irritated by the noise he and his friends were making. So she took her car keys to go for a casual drive, you know, to go get some fresh air. The destination was nowhere. All she wanted was a moment by herself on the road.

However, her plan was abruptly altered when she bumped into a friend – she was still driving to nowhere, but this time with company. The night drive with her friend was pretty uneventful. At some point she bought a cherry cigar at the local garage and headed home to enjoy her purchase.

Two blocks away from her house, to be precise, the accident happened. The car in front of her slowed down with little warning, so she slammed into it. The car behind rammed into hers causing the most damage. Sandwiched between two cars that had white drivers and passengers – she guesses this was the reason the police took their side instead of hers.

Conspiracy theory

The occupants of the other two cars seemed to know each other – all of them insisting that Waratwa was the one at fault. The police insisted she was drunk because she couldn’t walk properly, despite her continuous pleas that her leg did not feel right, she was in pain and she needed help. In fact, she was carried to the side of the road by one of the drivers involved in the accident.

‘They could have hurt you even further!’ I gasped in horror.

Despite my reaction, Waratwa calmly continued to explain that the police asked the paramedics to leave because she was ‘a suspect’. They kept on saying to her coldly, ‘who is going to bail you out of jail?’

Without a single tear dropping, she remained at the scene bearing her pain (with paramedics right there) for 2 hours before she was ‘released’ by the police to go to hospital. By then the girl who had been with her in the car had long disappeared – Waratwa believes she heard the word ‘jail’ and she ducked.

Hospital Blues

Eventually she was admitted into Tembisa Hospital – as the saying goes, “When it doesn’t rain, it pours”. You see, Waratwa had signed her medical aid forms but had not processed them. Therefore she could not be admitted into a private hospital – forfeiting the comfort and the high care.

Consequently, the first painkiller she received was at 6:30 the next morning. Later that day the police came to handcuff her to the bed, still believing her to be the cause of the havoc – despite doctors advising that she was highly unlikely to escape in her state. Eventually the police got the picture (idiots!), and after a week and a half the specialist surgeon eventually operated on her.

Tembisa Hospital is a scary place to be in – having had a minor experience there. Mine was a few hours but it inspired a poem I immediately shared with Waratwa in my attempt to say ‘I understand. I may not have been there for over month, but I certainly understand’....

Poor me! I cried.
But oh how I lied.

Under the harsh lights of Tembisa hospital.
I realised how I still had it all.
The warm bed I take for granted.
Is what others always wanted.

My psychiatrist and my dentist.
My ophthalmologist and my gastrologist.
She just had this one mediocre doctor.
Who told her ‘I’ll see you a little later’.

Her eye was yucky and fully swollen.

I was so scared it would go rotten.
She didn’t even see the guy with blood spilling.

While she sat anxiously waiting.

She moaned and cried and said she was sore.
But I was distracted by the lovely pattern of red spots on the floor.
Oh and the nurses don't consult they just shove.
And it's weird how they all don't use a glove.

Men and women, grannies and babies.
The lot of them called casualties.
Squashed in a single cold hall.
And I realised how I still have it all.

Poor me! I once cried.
Oh....How I lied.

And Oh…How she understood! I watched her bobbing her head, comprehending the shock of my night at Tembisa. ‘Now, you must imagine I was there a month!” she said.

Signs and Symbols

After sharing a few horror stories, some admittedly amusing, she said that it was after this operation that the specialist warned that she would no longer be able to walk. Then she smiled and said ‘let me tell you a funny story. As the anaesthetist was prepping me for theatre – the last song I remember being played was (and yes, she broke into song) “gimme the green light, I’m ready to go right now. I’m ready to go right now”.’

She paused, seemingly transported back to that moment.

‘How did you family cope?’ I asked.

‘I remember the sadness in my brother’s eyes. I could see that he thought he was going to lose me just like he lost our mother,’ she said, reflecting quietly.

‘Eventually, I came out of hospital on Good Friday,’ she said. 

We kept quiet for a while... I don’t know what she was thinking. But, though I am not hugely religious, I was amazed by the profound coincidence of her Good Friday discharge. I felt a little jealous – like she seemed to have direct access to a spiritual world I know nothing about.

Making History

As soon as she recovered, Waratwa received her license to be the first youth minister in the 60 years that St Monica’s Anglican Church has been in existence. She told me that she is overwhelmed by this achievement, to the point where she has a loss of words when she recalls her journey to this point; ‘I used to come to St Monica’s in my All Stars and sit right at the back.’ Now Waratwa is right at the front – she tried to explain how that feels but, I kid you not, she was speechless.

She found it easier to chat about the parish teens, who she refers to as the ‘kids’, and explains how she councils them; and even how they should be viewed. ‘The youth have so many influences’ she said ‘but we (St Monica’s) aim to make children instruments that can change the world.’

Waratwa alluded to the fact that the born-frees need to be guided much more. ‘Times have changed’ she contemplated. ‘When I was 16 the neighbour could give me a hiding. But now the government has messed us around. Children have rights, they have no limitations, they have too much time’ she said with concern. ‘But they also have dreams and aspirations; we (St Monica’s) just try and give them a different view of things and try and balance out school life and home life.’

By now the afternoon was rearing to an end, so, before we wrapped up, I asked the question that made me ask for this interview on the first place…

A Believer

I am chronically sick so I am very much aware of the different things that are factors in your healing process. Healing can be driven by medicine, exercise, diet, prayer, love, desire to live, the repulsion of feeling helpless.... The list is endless. Medical experts do not always know what makes one person heal while another suffers from the same disease. So I was curious about what made Waratwa learn how to walk (and drive) in such a fairly short period of time...how did she come to a place where a wheel chair and crutches were no longer her constraint?

‘Faith.’ she said unhesitatingly, ‘I was very much aware of what I hoped for.’