Author reconnects with his roots to know himself better as Mosotho

Thaba Bosiu holds the honour of being the spiritual home of Basotho.

Writing this book gave me  the opportunity to retell my story as a Mosotho man.

And to do that, I needed to go to Lesotho so that I could see myself through the lens of the place to better understand my being, and how Western religion came to be so central to my family’s life.

It was Thaba Bosiu I needed to get to.

It was here, in Maseru district, that the founder of the Basotho nation, King Moshoeshoe arrived at night from Botha-Bothe. He named the mountain he found there Thaba Bosiu – “mountain at night”.

Legends abound about this mountain that became Moshoeshoe’s fortress and stronghold. It is believed that it grows bigger at night or that it moves, and that if you took some sand away from it, the sand would disappear overnight to return to the mountain.

Practically speaking, it was strategically placed, making it safe and secure for the king – who occupied it in 1824 – and impenetrable for the enemy at a time of instability and war.

It was at Thaba Bosiu that the first French missionaries Eugene Casalis, Thomas Arbousett and Constand Gosselin arrived in 1833.

They we were welcomed by Ramatseatsana ’Mote who had settled at the foot of the mountain with his family.

A day or two later, they went up the mountain to meet Moshoeshoe.

Two things make Thaba Bosiu such a profoundly important place when one speaks about the Basotho nation.

It is here that the Basotho were formed as a people, and it is here that Christianity was rooted.

The trajectory of Basotho took a different course as Christianity infiltrated every aspect of their existence.

The missionaries set out to introduce Western values and practices that often clashed with African practices like mahadi (or lobola, as it is known in other languages) and polygamy.

From the contact between the Europeans and the Basotho, a new generation emerged, one that could read and write.

By 1863, a mere 30 years after the first missionaries arrived at Thaba Bosiu, a newspaper titled Leselinyana la Lesotho was started by Adolphe Mabille produced in Morija, a town fondly known as Letsha la Thuto (the well of education).

It was widely read by the literate beneficiaries of mission education.

Earlier, there was also Moboleli oa Litaba, a newspaper produced in Beersheba, in present-day eastern Free State, by missionary Samuel Rolland in the 1850s, which is possibly the oldest serial publication aimed at the literate black readers in this part of the world.

After the destruction of Beersheba, it was from Morija, not far from Maseru in western Lesotho, that the printing of newspapers, pamphlets, books and flyers flourished.

One can safely say that Morija took Sesotho to the world. Today, Sesotho may have numerically fewer speakers than most languages, but the prestige and power of the language of Basotho remain unassailable in the realm of religious worship.

It was also in Morija that the iconic Lifela tsa Sione was produced.

This collection of hymns composed and recorded in Sesotho by the missionaries with the aid of their black understudies continues to be a permanent fixture in the lives of thousands of people who live nowhere near Morija.

These hymns were translated into other languages and have been sung in isiZulu, isiXhosa, Tshivenda, Xitsonga, Siswati, Setswana and Sepedi.

These are the days, finally, of black people reclaiming their stories and histories and re-imagining their positions in a society that has been forcibly shaped around the ideas of Europeans, ideas they spread, often violently, in great swathes across the African continent and elsewhere.

As a practising Black Christian man, I needed to understand my own position in the world too. My people have always been church people.

My great-grandfather was an elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church. My grandfather was an evangelist of the Dutch Reformed Church. My late father was an elder, one uncle is a retired minister, another a retired evangelist, and so many other uncles were elders.

Going to church is a non-negotiable in my family. Our children are baptised and have been brought up in the church.

Church is central to our existence and that’s been the case for over 100 years.

I headed to Lesotho to shake the mountains for answers about what all of this means to me, now, here. I had to retrace the steps of my forebears.

As somebody who grew up so far away from the land of my ancestors, it was going to be too much to take in when the moment of reckoning arrived.

It was an early morning ascension up Thaba Bosiu. Energetic, full of life and filled with anticipation, I sprinted up 600 metres, give or take, to the summit with ease.

I had a guide with me, a kind young man named Lebohang Mafa, but I had no idea what to expect from my reaction to the place.

The flat-topped mountain has seven passes including Khubelu, Ramaseli, Mokhachane and Makara.

The sweeping views of Thaba Bosiu extend for dozens of kilometres.

As I sat on the boulder that is known as Moshoeshoe’s chair, I felt history so close to me I could touch it. I was touching it.

It was from this vantage point that I, like Moshoeshoe did some 200 years ago, took in unfettered views of the plains, the ridges and crevices of the mountains, and rivers. This is where Moshoeshoe used to sit and survey his kingdom.

Nothing could have prepared me for the swelling of emotions as I stood by the grave of Moshoeshoe on Thaba Bosiu. His final resting place is marked by a neat arrangement of stones. The simple headstone is inscribed ‘Morena Moshoeshoe I’.

I bowed my head in prayer and felt an overwhelming sense of connection with my identity.

This is where a man I was taught about in school, and whose name is etched in the history of African history, rested.

The stories are endless; the legend is larger than life. His power, prowess and intelligence have been the cornerstone of Basotho identity.

They are not called the people of love and peace for nothing: this is what Moshoeshoe’s quiet diplomacy advocated.

And here I stood at the grave of the father of Bashoeshoe, as Basotho are sometimes referred to. It felt like I was there to represent all the Mofokengs who could not be there with me: my late grandparents, my father Moses, my mother, my entire family.

All of us there – in the simple form of one man trying to find the path that brought him to the middle of his life and who wondered where it would take him next – came together that day to pay respects to this great ancestor of a nation we belong to.

Nearby, is the tomb of King Moshoeshoe II. A granite monstrosity that reflects modern tastes. The contrast between the two is telling.

King Moshoeshoe I died in 1870. King Moshoeshoe II in 1996.

Two generations of Basotho rulers are separated by a century of upheaval and by the small distance between their final resting places. One is marked by a heap of rocks, symbolising oneness with the earth.

The other is shiny and palatial and is surrounded by palisade fencing. The differences are striking. How much has changed since Basotho became a nation.

There are a few other graves of Basotho chiefs and headmen (and women) that surround the graves of the two kings. Walking around here truly brings the expression “walking among greats” to life.

It is customary to wash one’s hands after standing at the grave, so I walked over to seliba sa ’MaMohato (the well of ’MaMohato).

Moshoeshoe had more than 150 wives. ’MaMohato was the principal wife, effectively the mother of the Basotho nation. Where I am washing my hands is from the well that she used.

It is one of eight springs found on Thaba Bosiu.

As I gulped the sweet and cool waters from the spring, brought to my mouth with the cup of my hands, my guide told me that this wasn’t just any water, that it carried spiritual and healing qualities.

I used the moment again to connect, saying silent prayers and asking for the blessings of my ancestors. As the water ran down my throat into my body, I felt a shift.

This was probably one of the most peaceful states I had ever experienced.

The sense of protection and comfort, like I had reunited with my favourite blanket from when I was a child. I felt cradled, heard, seen and appreciated by my ancestors.

It is hard to describe what happens when you go through such an out-of-body experience, but all I can tell you, with great humility, is that I felt it.

When I stood up from the spring, I felt fortified. I had drunk from the well of my grandmothers. I was in communion with my ancestors.

This is an extract from The Man Who Shook Mountains by former journalist Lesley Mofokeng. It is published by Jonathan Ball Publishers.