The Moth Radio Hour: Live from Johannesburg

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I'm Jodi Powell.

This time, we have a live main stage show from Johannesburg, South Africa,

which was supported by the Gates Foundation.

The theatre was super sold out, with hundreds of people in the audience,

and one family even drove five hours to attend.

You'll 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 Kaurapetso Khozizile Theater.
More importantly, welcome to the Moth Johannesburg! I'm so proud of you, Joburg. We've got a full house tonight.

Tickets were sold out more than a week ago.

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, 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... 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 Lebu Masile in a Winnie Mandela T-shirt.

Then Daphne will play this. And when you hear that, you know, hurry.
It's game over. It's Overs Cadovers.
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 and Luxembourg and Germany and Korea and Japan. Respectfully we respond we listen hourly and orally.
So if the spirit moves you to say,

ayo, esho, feel free. Yes.
Yes. Yes.
Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. Thank you.
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 bread. Alone.
I had never been to the stores to buy anything of consequence alone. The only time I'd been to the stores to buy anything of consequence was when I would take a loan when my 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 hole, especially in the hole.
Hence my sharp indega, 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 comply. So my older cousins had already been sent to the stores to buy other items.
Because usually the things that I would buy during this period would come on different days. But on this particular day, everything was just available all at once.
So it was kind of a divide and conquer situation. Hence, I was home alone and was sent to go to the bedroom.
Being an eight-year-old Zimbabwean, I was home alone and was sent to go 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 Gwere Nzara, the year of hunger, as most local Zimbabwans like to call it. And I know you, 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 advice to anyone in this 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 I'd always been short for someone in grade three. And I remember this distinctly, because whilst 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-mate 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 the bread first.
It had nothing to do whatsoever with who would get the bread first. So, you know, we were standing in the queue and I turned 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? Because 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 opened. 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 there with my paper bag.
And at this point, I just think, maybe I should just go back home. But that thought, like, 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- mission because it was such a huge crowd. So we waited and waited and waited and waited.
We really waited. Finally, the bakery doors opened and now everyone is trying to push the front, just like I'd predicted.
Now everyone's 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 payment point.
I was so relieved, emotionally and physically. Physically because I paid for the bread, so the paper bag 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 cling 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 passing and walking home.

And a thought hits me.

And I think, is it always this satisfying to be a provider? Is it always this, to fight for something to help your family survive and make it, you know? Is it always dissatisfying, you know? Because 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 dissatisfying, you know, 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 at 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 really a bread winner, you know? Like, literally. Thank you.
That was Webster Ishiya Nopa 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 Nappy Tappy. The word Nappy Tappy 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

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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 theatre 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 rose 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.
Jo 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 to 30% 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 the backstages of theatres, 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 Schmuckler.
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 Abopara. 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 Chaborone, in Lagos, in Abeokuta.
That happened in Lesotho. The fridge in the hotel room wasn't working, and 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 Abeokuta 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, this is what we call swash.
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 check 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, 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's side eyed me

because they didn't want the milk anymore.

We go through a lot.

I went through a lot,

and people who breastfeed go through a lot. 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 Mzansi, South Africa.

Please give it up for Mzansi 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 has always guaranteed a paracetamol

in Panado

for herself and her tea club. 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 in door 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 would go shopping. I would 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 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.
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 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 this dead 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 non-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 going to be a person. And 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 day 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 has 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 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 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 received care. And yet I was sitting with them in their office.
That's their hot spot. 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 their care bag in healthcare. I decided that theirs 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 you 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 Nisovo Mayemele.
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 The Moth

and on Instagram and TikTok at Moth Stories.

In a moment, a woman and her husband are determined to make some money in Malawi when The Moth Radio Hour continues. Thank you.
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Today's show is sponsored by Alma.
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This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jodi Powell.

In this episode, we're hearing stories from our main stage show in Johannesburg, South Africa. Here's our host, poet, actor, and human rights advocate, Lebo Mashile.
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 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 Lirongwe, 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 along, 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... 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 kwasu kwasu, 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 pate or something.

I checked my pot of rice.

There was nothing.

I checked my pot of chicken, 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 culturally, 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 turning 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 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'm 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 zero, zero, zero. And then he left the water board offices with all smiles.
He taught 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 airport

to start the business.

The water board

connected the water supply.

I am putting on gambots,

a chitanger, which is a wrapper,

with my 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 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 socials, enjoying the Indian Ocean, enjoying the salty water, burning my eyes, but enjoying the experience.
So nice. And now we can pay our water bills no longer illegal connections.

And now we can pay our water bills, no longer illegal connections. And now we can eat our chicken pasta crust with us, and 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.

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... 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 Lebomishile once more to close us out. This has been a breathtaking evening.
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 Meshile.

To hear all the 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 Lebo Mashile.

Lebo 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 Puwane in her latest work, Wrapped in Rhythm, Volume 1.
You can catch her on Netflix Classified and in the film Hotel Rwanda. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Sarah Austin Janess, and Jody Powell, who also hosted.
Sarah and Jody 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 Gully, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza.
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 Reese Dennis.
Moth 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 Thininabbo, Abdullah Ibrahim, and Johnson McClehaly. 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