SHE knew when it was time to plough the fields. She knew how to produce a good harvest - in quality and quantity.

She always looked forward to the season when she would spend most of her time on the family's small farm.

Back then, a house stand allocated to a family was accompanied by a plot within a larger communal farming area held in trust by the local chief. (Now, whenever I visit Ngwenyeni, my home village in Mpumalanga, I get hurt by the extreme poverty that coexists with large tracts of land lying fallow.)

The idea at the time was that each family ought have the means in the form of land to survive.

Each had its own plot. There were good rains. The soil was fertile. It had life.

There was nothing called climate change. Droughts and floods, even the most severe, were cyclical and predictable by the wise men and women of the village.

She could predict when the rains would start falling with the kind of precision that would put ivy league graduate climatologists and their sophisticated instruments to shame.

This was important because it enabled her to plan in advance. She was not a sangoma, but I somehow got a sense she knew when the dreaded floods and drought would strike.

She had a good idea how deep she had to plant seeds for maize, soya beans, beans and other grains she farmed. She knew the conditions under which the crops would grow.

She so much loved farming that even when she was at home, or at my uncle's place, she would use whatever available land to plant sweet potatoes, tomatoes and other vegetables.

At the time the homesteads were surrounded by small bushes. Armed with her hoe and a few songs to hum as if talking to herself, she would work the land. Painstakingly.

She was a phenomenal results-driven hard worker.

In the 1980s while working on my uncle's plot tragedy struck. She was almost killed by an apartheid police squad.

The heavily armed cops were apparently chasing after an elusive anti-apartheid activist. Frustrated that they could not find him, they decided to set their dogs on the poor woman.

It was almost as if they were relieving on her the frustration of failing to catch their intended target.

The bulldogs were merciless. For a while she could neither walk nor talk. I was sad.

Young as I was back then, I still remember seeing her lying inside her hut in pain with almost her entire body covered in white and yellow bandages.

That's the kind of unwarranted brutality one would have expected would come to an end with the dawn of democracy.

Soon after she recovered from this barbaric attack, she collected herself, summoned her strength, put her hoe on her shoulder and began that usual journey that took her more than 5km, where the family farm was situated.

She would work long hours. Over weekends and during holidays my father, who was a schoolteacher, would join her.

My mother, who was on and off school due to family obligations, including raising her children, would also join in.

We too, the young, would join in during school holidays.

But there was no doubt who the leader was. There was no question who the real producer was.

She was a great teacher. She made the kind of theories I was taught at school, in agriculture, geography and biology, look simpler. I was taught how economic and natural systems work. She put it into practice for me - of course unknowingly.

While observing her work, I knew the implications of soil erosion. I knew why she would plant certain seeds in either moist or dry soil. I knew in practice what subsistence farming was all about. And I knew when she was doing rotational farming and I could explain why.

In the end, I could see with my own eyes the sweet fruits of hard work. She introduced me to an idiot's guide to economics. Suddenly, the use of capital - land and entrepreneurship - made sense.

At school I was taught economic geography and agricultural economics theories.

I was taught about spatial planning, location of industrial zones, and supply and demand graphs.

Her work helped me clear the theoretical fog. After a harvest, she knew exactly how much the family would need to feed until the next ploughing season.

She didn't need sophisticated computers to do the futuristic modelling for her.

She knew how much she would give to close relatives. Strict as she was, she had a great heart with boundless generosity. She knew how much she would store for a rainy day.

And most importantly, she knew how much to take to the markets to sell. With that, came extra income which helped with my brothers' and cousins' post-school education.

This is what I found fascinating about her. She had never been to school. Yet she valued and worshipped education.

As we sing songs about the struggle heroines who defied the apartheid regime, we should not forget the heroines who live with us daily. They feed us. They teach us the ways of life. They instil in us sound values.

LaMaluleka - my grandmother who passed away a few years ago - was such a person.