The Moth Radio Hour: Live from Johannesburg

Today's show is sponsored by Alma.

I know I'm not the only one who turns to the internet when I'm struggling.

It feels like there are so many answers, from how to learn the ukulele to how to improve my mental health.

But what I've come to realize is that while I can use the internet to strum a stunted version of La Vian Rose, when it comes to taking care of my mind, there's no replacement for real human relationships.

But even finding a therapist can feel like an inevitable online black hole.

That's why I'm so happy to share that Alma makes it easy to connect with an experienced therapist, a real person who can listen, understand, and support you through your specific challenges.

You don't have to be stuck with the first available person.

Trust me, it's important to find someone you click with.

They can be nice, they can be smart, they can let you bring your chihuahua, true story, but they also have to be someone who really gets you uniquely.

When you browse Alma's online directory, you can filter by the qualities that matter to you, then book free 15-minute consultations with the therapists you're interested in seeing.

This way, you can find someone you connect with on a personal level and see real improvements in your mental health with their support.

Better with people, better with Alma.

Visit helloalma.com/slash moth to get started and schedule a free consultation today.

That's hello-l-m-a.com/slash m-o-th-h.

The Moth is supported by AstraZeneca.

AstraZeneca is committed to spreading awareness of a condition called hereditary transthyroidin-mediated amyloidosis or HATTR.

This condition can cause polyneuropathy like nerve pain or numbness, heart failure or irregular rhythm and gastrointestinal issues.

HATTR is often underdiagnosed and can be passed down to loved ones.

Many of us have stories about family legacies passed down through generations.

When I was five, my mother sewed me a classic clown costume, red and yellow with a pointy hat.

It's since been worn by my sister, three cousins, and four of our children.

I'm so happy this piece of my childhood lives on with no end in sight.

Genetic conditions like HATTR shouldn't dominate our stories.

Thanks to the efforts of AstraZeneca, there are treatment options so more patients can choose the legacies they share.

This year, the Moth will partner with AstraZeneca to shine a light on the stories of those living with HATTR.

Learn more at www.myattrroadmap.com.

This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jodi Powell.

This time we have a live mainstage show from Johannesburg, South Africa, which was supported by the Gates Foundation.

The theater was super sold out with hundreds of people in the audience, and one family even drove five hours to attend.

You will hear a big and lively crowd.

The theme was power and possibility.

Here's our host for the night, poet, actor, and advocate, Lebo Mashile, who took the stage wearing an electric blue tutu with a huge train and a Winnie Mandela t-shirt.

Welcome to the University of Johannesburg Arts and Culture, the Corapeto Hossu Sile la theater.

More importantly, welcome to the mosque, Johannesburg.

I'm so proud of you, Joeberg.

We've got a full house tonight.

Tickets were sold out more than a week ago.

It's like it's unprecedented.

It's incredible.

I'm so proud of you.

I'm so, so happy.

Tonight is very special because it's the second time that they're back in Johannesburg.

Shout out to you if you were here when they were here in 2016.

Yes, the OGs, the OGs.

So the power of this platform is first-person narrative.

One mic, a stage.

one person telling a first person an I

story, something that happened to you that is 100%

true.

And this is because there's nothing really more powerful than the intimacy of being able to connect to a crowd with just a mic and your own story.

We have storytellers coming up one by one to tell their stories.

Each storyteller has got between 10 and 12 minutes to tell their story.

And we are very strict about time, which is why dear Daphne is on stage.

So when a storyteller feels themselves being taken by the wings of the spirit and pushed beyond the time limits,

as the words flow out of their mouths and as you receive them,

Daphne will indicate that they must wrap it up.

And she will do so by playing this.

So storytellers, when you hear that single note, you know that it's time to wind it down.

Now, if you really

feel yourself being pulled into the ether beyond the threshold of the space-time continuum, because your ancestors are fighting through your lungs and mind and the power of your imagination to get this story out during the people, and you will not be stopped by any fuss, by any mic,

by any stage, by any MC, even Lebumashile in a Winnie Mandela t-shirt.

Then Daphne will play this.

And when you hear that, you know, Hurin,

it's game over.

It's over's Cadovas.

I was so impressed.

As soon as Daphne started playing, the room went silent.

And I was like, oh, these are my cultured Joburg people.

These are people who know how to act in a theater.

I love them so much.

These are my dignified, listening Africans.

I want to invite you, please, to be yourselves.

I know that in this corner of the world, we don't listen to things the way people listen to things in Austria, Luxembourg, and Germany, and Korea, and Japan.

Respectfully,

we respond, we listen aurally and orally.

So, if the Spirit moves you to say,

Jesus, Jesso, Makosi, hey, Mama, Yonkin,

feel free.

Yes,

yes,

Be yourself.

Be true to yourself.

Just don't be obnoxious because you know the line.

There's always a line.

And you can feel when someone has stepped over the line, right?

But the fact that we are interactive is also what makes it so wonderful to perform on this continent.

And I am so proud tonight to be from Johannesburg.

You showed up and you showed out.

So here we go.

Tonight's theme is power and possibility.

You have a program in your hand, in your seat, in your bag, that details who each of these incredible individuals are.

They're all advocates, they're all activists in some way, shape, or form.

They're all incredibly accomplished.

But tonight we get to meet them as storytellers.

Let us welcome to the stage our very first storyteller, Webster Isha Nopa Makomba.

I was playing outside and then my mother calls me.

Nasi, no wonder no tinga chimgo.

Today you are going to buy bread.

Nagger.

Alone.

I had never been to the stores to buy anything of consequence alone.

The only time I've been to the stores to buy anything of consequence was when I would take along when my mother mother would send my older cousins.

I was my mother's last-born baby and still am.

And as most of you know, last-born babies rarely lift a finger in the heart, especially in the home.

Hence, my sharp nagger.

There was no way I was going to go to the bread queue alone.

But one thing you don't do,

one thing you don't do is make an African mother repeat herself after giving an instruction

I Knew I knew I had to I knew I had to comply

So my older cousins had already been sent to the stores to buy other items Because usually the things that we buy during this period will come on you know on different days But on this particular day, everything was just available all at once.

So it was kind of of a divide and conquer situation.

Hence, I was home alone and was sent to go, you know, to the bed queue.

Being an eight-year-old Zimbabwean, I was convinced that Zimbabweans loved to stand in a queue.

We used to queue to get into the bus, we used to queue to get into the bank.

I even remember starting grade one, I stood in a queue to get in class.

Yeah.

So this was the year 2008 or Gorenzara, the year of hunger, as most local Zimbabweans like to call it.

And I know you, Jejus, you're saying it's giving Zimbabwe.

If it ever gave Zimbabwe that time in 2008, that's when it was really giving Zimbabwe.

Yeah.

So it's 2008 and things are really tough.

The inflation in the country, you know, is so high.

That my adverse

room who wants to be a billionaire, just look for a $100 Zimbabwean dollar bill from that time.

You can be a billionaire right then, but you'll be a poor billionaire.

That's how terrible, you know,

things were at that time.

So it's 2008.

I didn't want to go to the bread queue, but you know, African mothers being African mothers, shortly I was at the bread queue.

So I was in grade three and you know I'd always been short for someone in grade three.

And I remember this distinctly because whilst I I was standing in the queue my face was digging into some woman's behind

and I was so glad that the person who was standing behind me was an age mad and not another towering figure that would probably squash me in the stampede that usually forms when the bakery doors open

because believe it or not us standing in the queue was just to show who had gotten there first.

It had nothing to do whatsoever with who would get the bread first.

So, you know, we are standing in the queue and I turn around, start chatting with a mate who was standing behind me.

And our conversation was, you know, remember that time you sleep with one eye open?

Although we're talking to each other, chit-chatting and all that, our focus was on the bakery doors and how to find ourselves at the front of the queue.

once those bakery doors open.

And at this time, you know, I was holding a paper bag with cash and it's getting heavier and heavier.

That was really a lot of money, physically, but not in terms of value.

So I'm laying on my paper bag.

And at this point, I just think maybe I should just go back home.

But that thought

leaves my mind instantly because I thought I didn't want to be the one to come back home empty-handed since my cousin was already waiting for other things in other queues.

So with my friend, we are there, you know, we are waiting, and we are chit-chatting.

This was such a huge crowd.

It seemed as if everyone in our community had sent a special envoy on a bread-finding mission because it was such a huge crowd.

So we waited and waited and waited

and waited.

We really waited.

Finally the bakery doors open and now everyone is trying to push to the front just like I had predicted.

Now everyone is trying to push to the front to get a loaf of bread.

And then you know

eight-year-old me is also trying you know in the crowd to push to the front.

I get the front.

I try to stretch my eight-year-old hand to get the bread but it's not doing any mission.

So I'm being pushed, I'm being shoved.

I even remember being elbowed.

That was tough times.

And you know I managed to maneuver and finally I got you know a loaf of bread.

And then I moved over to the designated permanent point.

I was so relieved emotionally and physically.

Physically because I paid for the bread so the paperback wasn't heavy anymore.

And emotionally, if anyone was going to come home empty-handed, it was definitely not going to be me.

So I was super proud of what I had done.

And you know, I moved from paying for the bread, now I'm just clinging on it and holding it by the neck so that it doesn't run away.

And I'm feeling so proud of myself.

Because this is something that I didn't even want to do in the morning.

And look at me now.

I had gotten the bread.

I couldn't wait to go home and show everyone that, you know what, I had gotten the bread.

And now I'm pacing and walking home.

And the thought hits me.

And I think, is it always this satisfying to be a provider?

Is it always this satisfying, you know, to fight for something to help your family survive and make it?

You know?

Is it always this satisfying?

Because now I was imagining going home and watching everyone eating their bread and be like, yeah, I did that.

So I just thought, is it always that satisfying to be a provider?

Is this how really it feels?

And now I'm passing home and I also think to myself, at dusk, sorry, at dawn, I had left home just an eight-year-old boy.

But now, at dusk, as I was walking home with my bread in hand, it's now a dusk, just to show you the amount of time I'd waited in the queue.

And I'm walking home with my bread in hand, and I was really a breadwinner, you know?

Like literally.

Thank you.

That was Webster Ishiyanopa Makombe.

Webster is a food systems activist, a nutrition advocate, and a lawyer in Zimbabwe.

He is also the curator of a mini-food festival called Napi-Tapi.

The word Napi-Tapi in his native language loosely translates to finger-licking good in English.

To see photos of Webster as a boy with his mom and today, still a breadwinner, go to themoth.org.

In a moment, we hear from two South African storytellers about finding new friends in unexpected places when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Do you ever find yourself playing the budgeting game?

Well, with the name Your Price tool from Progressive, you can find options that fit your budget and potentially lower your bills.

Try it at Progressive.com.

Progressive Casualty insurance company and affiliates.

Price and coverage match limited by state law.

Not available in all states.

Starting your own business can be intimidating.

Suddenly, you're wearing all the hats.

Designer, marketer, customer support, shipping expert.

It's a lot.

That's where Shopify comes in.

Shopify is the global commerce platform powering millions of businesses around the world and 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S.

Shopify has your back.

With hundreds of ready-to-use templates, you can launch a beautiful, professional online store that looks and feels like you.

Need content?

Shopify's AI tools can help you write product descriptions, headlines, even enhance your product photos.

Want to grow your reach?

Easily create email and social media campaigns to meet your audience wherever they're scrolling.

And with Shopify's world-class support, you'll have expert help for everything.

Turn your big business idea into

with Shopify on your side.

Sign up for your $1 per month trial and start selling today at shopify.com/slash slash Odyssey Podcast.

Go to shopify.com slash Odyssey Podcast.

Shopify.com slash Odyssey Podcast.

This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jodi Powell.

We're bringing you stories from our main stage show in Johannesburg, South Africa, with the theme Power and Possibility.

The energy in the theater at the University of Johannesburg was electric.

I remember sitting next to Sarah Austin Janess, a co-director.

We were both swept up in a deep, sweet, infectious feeling that we were both about to experience something amazing.

Folks started filing in from the busy lobby, dressed to the nines, and the amber and blue lights dancing on the stage as the rows started to fill up.

As the local violinist Daphne serenaded us, the room fell quiet.

And then a roar engulfed us to welcome our host, South Africa's gem and local poet Lebo Mashile.

It was like we all knew that we were in for a good time.

Here's Lebo with a story of her own.

Joe Berg, are you feeling good tonight?

I've been a working artist my entire adult life.

And when I became a mom, I was committed to breastfeeding.

But being a working artist means that I spend 25 25 to 30 percent of my time on the road, in planes, in trains, working in places where people will have me like everybody else in the room who's self-employed or who's an entrepreneur, you go where the work is.

So this meant that I spent a lot of time when my children were first born breastfeeding

in public toilets, in

airports, in hotel rooms, in the bathrooms of television studios or backstage,

in backstages of theaters,

in sound recording studios when I was doing my second album.

I remember doing an interview once

and my boobs started leaking as they do.

And thankfully I was wearing this polyester red dress.

And the director was also a mom, Gina Schmokla.

Shout out to Gina wherever you are.

Gina took me straight away into the bathroom.

I dried my dress, my boobs, my bra on the hand dryer,

and then went back into the studio and did my job.

I was pumping milk while I was doing my second album.

I pumped milk in home affairs, being stared at by Abu Para.

I've pumped milk.

I've rushed to the toilet, getting off of long haul flights to go and pump milk in the bathroom, begging air hostesses and airline workers for safe places to pump.

I've pumped and had to ask hotel staff

to show me where the coldest freezer is in the building.

Not the fridge that's in the hotel room.

I want the one that you guys use for the food that we eat.

And most of the time, in fact all of the time, I was met with tremendous compassion and humanity from ordinary people, from waiters and cleaners and chefs and cooks who are like, okay, we'll take your milk and we'll put it in the deep freeze in the kitchen.

That happened in Jaborune, in Lagos, in Abeocuta.

That happened in Lesotho.

The fridge in the hotel room wasn't working and they didn't have, they wouldn't, well, they didn't have a deep freeze that was cold enough for me to be able to keep the milk.

So I put the milk outside on the balcony in the middle of winter in Lesotho where it snows.

And when I woke up in the morning, the milk was frozen and I took it back home to feed my babies.

Probably the most exciting experience was attending Ake festival in Abeok Okuta and freezing the milk at the holiday inn at the hotel.

Shout out to the staff there.

They let me freeze it all week.

And then I had to travel through Mohamed Murtala Airport in Lagos.

If you've experienced it, you know that it's like sliding down an African rabbit hole, that place.

It is a warp zone.

At that time, the security would open your suitcase and they would go rummaging through your stuff looking for things before you could even check your bag in.

So I was like, yo, my milk, it's over, all this work.

Fortunately, I had bath salts with me and my brain kicked in.

And when the security guard saw the bath salts he was more interested in that which deflected my attention his attention from the cooler bag sitting there so he's like what's this I'm like these this is what we call siwasho

this is to protect me from demons and dark forces as a woman traveling alone he was like do you believe in that I was like yes wholeheartedly I swear by it they were so

terrified of that, of me, they let me just go through, close my suitcase, they didn't didn't take anything.

I could have come back into South Africa with crack.

The law in South Africa says that as a breastfeeding parent, you are entitled to two 20-minute breaks during the course of the day to go and pump milk or feed your child.

That's in addition to the tea breaks and the lunch that you are entitled to by law.

But there are no places for parents to pump.

I found myself at the mercy of individuals without whom I wouldn't have been able to feed my children.

I went to Colombia to Medellin Poetry, to the Medellin International Poetry Festival and I took vitamin B tablets for 10 days because the nursing sister told me that that would keep my milk up and I sat there with my medilla pump pumping, pumping, pumping, and came back and my child side-eyed me because they didn't want the milk anymore.

We go through a lot, or I went through a lot, and people who breastfeed go through a lot.

Shout out to my kids, they're in the audience somewhere.

They're still chowing me alive, eating my money.

I love them so much.

Our next storyteller says that their superpower is that, as a pharmacist, they ensure that people who need medicine get the medicine they need.

From right here in Mzanzi, South Africa.

Please give it up, Fonsovo Maimele.

I had spent about a decade of my life in the capital city of South Africa, where I had been studying.

I studied pharmacy.

I had qualified.

I was proud of myself.

So was my family, especially my grandmother, who was always guaranteed

a parasito mall and panado

for herself and her teeth lab.

To start off my pharmacy career, I found myself in a

town.

It was mountainous, it had farms, everyone was up in everyone's business.

But while living there, I could not make friends.

I had not made friends.

I found it to be very lonely.

I spent my nights reading and indoor where I didn't talk to people.

This was different from what I was used to in the capital city because there were lights over there.

I had friends.

I would hang out with them.

I had good conversations.

I'll go shopping.

I'll enjoy myself and there I was all by myself.

Working at the pharmacy was also challenging because I didn't have any passion.

I didn't have inspiration.

Prescription after prescription, no motivation whatsoever.

But then one day, a month into moving there,

I

said that maybe let me give this town a chance.

I woke up, I was like, I'm going to do this.

I opened my closet, took out my this skirt that I loved.

It was a skirt that I enjoyed wearing while I was still a student.

I took out my flat shoes because obviously you run around in the pharmacy, pharmacy, it's chaos.

You need to be comfortable.

So I took out my flat and I was like, I'm going to the hospital.

I'm doing this today.

I walk into the hospital from my residence.

I find patients already queuing up.

They're sitting there waiting for us to start working.

I see a pile of files with prescriptions in them that need to be filled.

Then I start filling up my prescription and I'm working.

One of my colleagues comes to me.

She's not my friend.

We're not friendly.

We're just professional.

She says,

you look inappropriate.

What do you mean I look inappropriate?

She says, you don't look like suitable for work.

You look improper for work.

I turned around and I asked her,

Where's the guideline?

Who defines how we look?

Where's the dress code policy?

She says, there's no policy.

It's left up to you to determine whether you look appropriate or not for work.

There I was.

I was a law-abiding citizen.

I like policies because I always abided by them.

Give me a guideline, I'll follow it.

But

after

Her telling me that I felt so low.

I was not happy in this town, but that was the lowest moment of my time spent there since I arrived.

I felt lonely.

I felt that silence in myself.

I felt violated by this lady.

I needed to take a break.

I needed a breath of fresh air, but I kept calm.

I told myself, let me just work.

And once I can take a break, I'll get out of the hospital and just breathe.

When the time came, I took a drive out.

Just as I was about to get out of the town, I spotted these ladies that I had seen in the pharmacy, but I've never engaged with them.

I decided to stop

and

I was like, I'm going to get out.

And I thought to myself, what am I going to say?

What am I going to say?

What am I going to say?

These ladies were known sex workers

one of them stepped up and approached me as I was getting out of my car

she asked me what do you want

then I

looked at her and I was like

I just want to talk I had a bad day today I'm not really feeling well Looking all colorful, they've got cool hairstyles.

They welcomed me and said, you can join us.

The first question that I was asked was,

how do you like the weather?

Man, I hated the weather in the town.

It was hot.

It was hot.

Then we started talking about our lives, our past, our aspirations, what we liked, what we didn't like.

We gossiped about the people in the town, how judgmental they were.

We talked about the elections because the mayor was busy campaigning for elections and yet we didn't even have running water.

We said, Why is she campaigning?

She cannot even fulfill the current promises, and yet she wants more votes.

While we were talking, I warmed up to them and I told them about my idea.

I told them about my skirt and what had happened to me in the pharmacy.

Then I said,

you know, a lady that is not my friend,

she,

we don't speak, she told me that my skirt is too short.

They looked at me.

I looked at them.

They looked at my skirt, which was longer than what they were wearing.

They laughed.

I laughed as well.

It was hilarious.

We just, we laughed.

They started telling me about how they don't like coming to the hospital.

They felt judged.

They didn't like the healthcare workers.

They didn't like the environment that was there.

And yet I felt so comfortable with them.

That moment

I thought to myself, something must be wrong here.

And as I was driving back to my residence at the hospital, I started thinking to myself that

these ladies

felt

unsafe.

and

they didn't feel welcome at my hospital where they receive care.

And yet I was sitting with them in their office.

That's their hotspot.

They made me feel so good.

They lifted this heavy weight off my shoulder.

I felt so good when I left.

And I thought to myself that

something needs to change.

Because there I was, I was a Christian girl, conservative.

I had grown up in a Christian background, Christian home.

and I was saved and baptized.

I loved the Lord and yet when I looked at these ladies,

in the back of my mind, I had a list of things that people had to abide by for them to be on my good list.

These ladies didn't need any of that.

They were not on the good list, but yet when I was with them, I felt good.

My grandmother was a woman who believed in service.

She liked serving people.

She made sacrifices.

Her family was actually moved by the apartheid government from where they were living into a remote area and my mom still had to continue with school.

So my grandmother took it upon herself to walk my mom between home and school which was about 15 kilometers so that her child would have an education.

If my grandmother is my pillar of advocacy, If I live by what my grandmother was doing, then I need to change my strategy of how I deliver services in this town.

I need to serve with dignity.

I need to love my patients.

I need to treat them better.

I need to make them feel welcome, especially these ladies that I had met.

A week later, after that whole transition, I spotted one of the ladies coming into the pharmacy.

I smiled at her, gave her VIP treatment.

I had made a transition in the way that I was treating our patients because not only did they have to come to me to get services, I would take the services to them.

I decided that I would put the care back in healthcare.

I decided that this would need to change.

Now it's more than 10 years later.

I still think about those ladies.

I still think about the turning point of my life.

I'm now married.

I've got children of my own.

My daughter is always asking me, very inquisitive, asking, mom,

how do you know good people?

Where do we find good people?

Where do you draw inspirations from?

She's a little too young to understand this story.

And yes, I can't wait to share it with her once she's older.

But I looked her in the eye and I told her,

Good people can be found anywhere.

Inspiration can be drawn from any place, especially the places where we least expect it.

Thank you.

That was Nusovo Maimele.

Her work in healthcare has won her multiple awards and she's passionate about cultivating a safe and inclusive environment for people to thrive.

You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive and buy tickets to a moth storytelling event in your area through our website themoth.org.

There are moth events year-round.

Find a show near you and come out and tell a story.

You can find us on Facebook and X at theMoth and on Instagram and TikTok at MothStories.

In a moment, a woman and her husband are determined to make some money in Malawi when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jodi Powell.

In this episode, we're hearing stories from our mainstage show in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Here's our host, poet, actor, and human rights advocate, Lebo Mashila.

It's interesting how there's a recurring theme about the appreciation of ordinary people, the power that ordinary people have.

These are people who are change agents that impact our lives in huge ways.

I think this is what makes the moth such a powerful platform, is that it's not the big, big, big, big history.

It's the small history.

But it's the one that we carry with us, the one that feeds, that bleeds into so many different different aspects of our lives that we don't necessarily see, but that are powerful.

And big, big, big love and congratulations to all of tonight's storytellers.

It's been an invigorating, inspiring.

healing, connecting evening and we are grateful to you for your vulnerability, for your honesty, for the work that you do, for what we see and what we don't see.

We thank you.

And now we invite our final storyteller to the stage

coming to us all the way from Malawi.

Can you please give it up for Matilda?

Growing up, I always wanted to be a flight attendant.

But when I finished my high school, I went straight into marriage.

Together with my husband, we were living in Lilongwe, the capital city of Malawi.

Life was difficult.

I was not working.

We had no business.

We had no source of income.

Yet we had a lot of responsibility to take care of people who came from the village to stay with us.

Traditionally,

people would come from the village to stay with you in town in search of greener pastures.

In the first years of my marriage, I had three people joining us,

and then it was one after the other

and then

we thought of doing something getting employment we couldn't

because our qualifications could not match the job market

it was tough for us to pay rent

difficult to pay water bills

At times the water board would come and disconnect our water supply and at night we would wake up and connect it illegally.

Life was not kind to us.

The people I stayed with, most of them were not even my relations.

One girl came

because she was chased away from her matrimonial home.

Instead of coming alone, she came with two kids, two cousins, and one house help.

Six people at one go in my house.

This one really got my nerves.

I could not imagine having a family within my family which was already struggling.

To bring food on the table was difficult.

And here I am with 20 people in my house.

I remember one day

on a Sunday, and you know Sundays are good days for your best meal.

So I prepared fried rice mixed with raisins, colored it yellow,

and then I prepared chicken kwasukwasu, which is basically chicken stew, so that when I get back from church, I should come and eat my delicious meal.

I kept my rice and my chicken in the kitchen.

While in the church, I was waiting for the last prayer.

As soon as the last prayer was said, I quickly went home straight into my kitchen and I got a shock of my life.

There was mess in my kitchen.

Plates were all over.

It was like there was a party or something.

I checked my pot of rice.

There was nothing.

I checked my pot of chicken costo cuaso.

Not even a bone in it.

I got furious, heartbroken, I almost cried.

I was told that one of the boys had invited his friends to come and eat my meal.

And I'm here thinking,

as I was walking back to my bedroom,

Is this the way these people are going to pay me for my kindness?

Should I chase them back to their village?

But I couldn't.

Because casually

that was going to be

like an unmannered person.

I kept it like that.

We tried everything we could to make ends meet,

but it was difficult.

I remember my auntie giving me a sewing machine.

I started a business, a targeting business.

It couldn't work.

It was a failed business.

I tried banana fritters.

I'm a very good cook.

But these tasty banana fritters, on this day, when I woke up at 3 a.m., prepared three buckets of banana fritters.

Unfortunately, the boys I hired to sell my banana fritters did not show up.

I ended up donating the banana fritters to

a nearby orphanage care.

And then one day

my husband told me, this was after dinner sitting on our bed in our bedroom.

He said, I have an idea.

Do you remember the toilet in the bus terminal?

I got interested.

What about

the toilet in the bus terminal?

What is our concern with that?

And then he said,

I am going to talk to the city council

so that they can allow us to run it as a business.

I said, no way, that's not possible.

Never, in your dreams.

You're joking.

Because those facilities are run by the city councils.

There's never been such a thing in Malawi.

But he insisted.

And as a supportive wife,

I gave him my support, but within me I was doubting.

The following day, he woke up early.

He had to walk 10 kilometers to the city council because we didn't have transport money.

I was home praying and hoping for the best.

Around 4 p.m.,

I saw him through the window coming from afar.

He was moving energetically.

His face was shining.

He was like clapping his hands.

as if he's singing.

And I'm like, something must have happened.

So I went out to meet him.

I was curious to know how it went.

And then he said, Zatega, literally meaning, it is done.

I celebrated.

I said, thank God for answering my prayers.

And he said, can you please cool down a bit?

I want to tell you how it went.

So he told me that at the city council, they did not object to his proposal.

They told him that they are giving him that toilet because it had accumulated a lot of water bills.

And I'm here, water bills again.

And then he went straight to the water board to check to be sure how much the bill was.

He had to walk five kilometers to the water board.

Reaching at the offices of the water board, they checked in the files.

They found nothing.

There was no bill.

It was 000.

And then he left the water board offices with all smiles.

He told me how he greeted everyone on the way back home.

And even one of them asked him, do we know each other?

And then he said,

I don't know you either.

I'm just excited.

Never mind.

So

he then said, God has paid our water bills.

I'm like, can you tell that God to pay our water bills here again?

The following day,

we woke up in the morning.

We went to the bus depot

to start the business.

The water board connected the water supply.

I am putting on gamblers, a chitanger which is a wrapper, with my mop mop and my broom.

This is a public toilet.

Filthy, disgusting, full of flies and cockroaches, smelling, and a beautiful girl like me

mopping a toilet.

A private toilet for that matter.

I could not imagine myself doing that because initially I wanted to be a flight attendant.

welcoming passengers on board,

telling them serving coffee, serving tea.

I have rice and chicken,

fish or beef.

But here I am, pushing a mop

instead of pushing a meal trolley in the aircraft.

And that day we opened to the general public and we managed to go back home with a good $25.

Business started

and business grew.

We now own

four public toilets run by us

and that business

from the savings we had we started to save for vacation.

I remember walking on the shores of

seychoes

enjoying the Indian Ocean,

Enjoying the salty water, banning my eyes, but enjoying the experience.

So nice.

And now we can pay our water bills, no longer illegal connections.

And now we can eat our chicken pasta cost with us.

Many we can save everyone here.

And now we are able to pay our house rent.

From that business, I managed to upgrade myself

and now I have a PhD in management.

No longer a flight attendant, but I'm a boss of my own.

All this

emanating from that stinking business.

business.

If life does not happen to you, happen it.

Thank you.

That was Matilda Matabwa.

Matilda is a gender specialist and theologian and the first female Secretary General in World Assemblies of God.

She lives in Malawi with her family.

It was such a pleasure to work on the story with Matilda.

There was so much joy here.

We talked about how the story should end and ultimately ending on the beach in Seychelles kept coming up.

And after all, she wanted to live out some of her traveling dreams and take the audience on a nice trip to the beach.

Here's Lebo Michile once more to close us out.

This has been a breathtaking

It has been a privilege to be a part of this.

Thank you so much, Johannesburg.

Go well.

God bless.

Thanks again to our host, Lebo Mashile.

To hear other stories from Africa from our archive and for information on live events and the moth podcast, go to themoth.org.

And if you'd like to watch this show live from Johannesburg in its entirety, there's a link to it in the show notes for this episode at themoth.org.

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour.

We hope you'll join us next time.

This live Johannesburg show was hosted by Leibo Mashile.

Leibo is a writer, performer, producer, actress, and activist.

She is a South African household name.

Who is most recognizable for her lyrical and gutsy poetry, which has captivated audiences worldwide.

Her award-winning poetry collection, In a Ribbon of Rhythm, has recently been adapted by South African jazz musician Tutu Poane in her latest work, Wrapped in Rhythm.

Volume 1.

You can catch her on Netflix Classified and in the film Hotel Rwanda.

Rwanda.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Sarah Austin-Janess, and Jodi Powell, who also hosted.

Sarah and Jodi also directed the stories in the hour along with Larry Rosen, co-producer Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Casa.

This live event was produced by Patricia Urena and Jody Dew from The Moth.

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producers Jenna Weiss-Berman and Leah Rhys-Dennis.

Most stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is By the Drift.

Other music in this hour from Young Tiger, Umala Fini Nabo, Abdullah Ibrahim, and Johnson McLahauley.

Thanks again to the Gates Foundation for their support of this event and the Moth Global Community Program and the University of Johannesburg where this event took place.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by Odyssey.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us, your own story, which we always hope you'll do, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

Starting your own business can be intimidating.

Suddenly, you're wearing all the hats.

Designer, marketer, customer support, shipping expert.

It's a lot.

That's where Shopify comes in.

Shopify is the global commerce platform powering millions of businesses around the world and 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S.

Shopify has your back.

With hundreds of ready-to-use templates, you can launch a beautiful, professional online store that looks and feels like you.

Need content?

Shopify's AI tools can help you write product descriptions, headlines, even enhance your product photos.

Want to grow your reach?

Easily create email and social media campaigns to meet your audience wherever they're scrolling.

And with Shopify's world-class support, you'll have expert help for everything.

Turn your big business idea into with Shopify on your side.

Sign up for your one dollar per month trial and start selling today at shopify.com/slash odysseypodcast.

Go to shopify.com/slash odysseypodcast.

Shopify.com/slash odyssey podcast.