Botsetsi

Practiced in many countries, each with its own twists, and what the English call confinement.

What a loaded concept.

Just a second, I just want to make it clear that this isn’t a history lesson. You can learn more about it here.

Many moons ago, I learned of its rigidness and told my mother absolutely not. I’m not shaving my head, nor am I staying inside the house, in a room, for six whole months eating porridge every morning or not having my partner around.

It was never going to be me. Not in this lifetime.

You may be thinking that I’m spitting on tradition, that these practices exist for a reason, so they must be followed and all that good stuff. But here is my truth: I don’t consider myself a rooted person. I don’t feel any personal ties to Tswana culture—it’s not something I was raised on.

I grew up in a household where ‘equality’ was preached (only because my cousin and I were the same age), kids were raised by the father figure, and the mother was the breadwinner. That setup does not reflect Tswana culture or most African cultures. It was unorthodox and anti-patriarchy by definition. So if anyone back in Kumakwane ever tried to tell me that I was a girl child and so I have to do ABC and D, if my cousin wasn’t doing it, I didn’t understand why I had to. I don’t care for having a man as the head of the household because I’ve never lived that life. Gender roles mean very little to me.

Fact is, I was raised as a feminist, whether it was intentional or not (don’t mistake that with being raised liberally because it was anything but). A feminist with a raging sense of hyper-independence—you can imagine how this presented itself in my relationship. He isn’t necessarily a traditionalist, but he does uphold some of those values. A “non-conservative conservative” in his own words. Whatever that means. I learned to lean on and depend on him as a friend, a partner, and the father of my child. So when these rules of conduct were thrown at me, at us, my Taurean bull reared its head. 

During pregnancy, my mother and I would discuss how things were going to pan out in terms of confinement, where I’d deliver—Kasane, Gaborone, or Harare—all that nesting stuff. When we got to who would be in the delivery room, my mother, only 40 years young, was appalled at the idea of my partner being there instead of her. She tried to get her bearings by implicitly asking me to assure her that he wouldn’t be in the room during confinement. Let’s just say she wasn’t happy with what I had to say.

Aside from the few weeks I spent at my great aunt’s house, my pregnancy wasn’t a family affair. No one ever told me what would be expected of me in the cultural sense, except for a few conversations with my mom like the one mentioned above. It was just cricket sounds all around. My friends carried me throughout, from beginning to end, and it’ll never, ever be something I take lightly when I think about how vulnerable I was. So imagine my shock when, at the time of birth, my phone was the busiest it had ever been since…well, ever. It was not something I had the energy for.

I hope it’s clear to everyone, as it was clear to me, why I had no interest in suddenly becoming a tradition-follower. Moreover, my daughter and I spent a lot of time (in my opinion at least… and every day in that place drove me insane) in the hospital. There was no rest. While she was in the neonatal unit, and I was finally allowed to see her, I had to get up and walk across the ward to the next building to cup-feed her every three hours, even through migraine episodes that led to fainting spells. All while being accused by hospital staff of not wanting to see my baby.

When she was transferred to ‘kangaroo care’—where preemies are with their mothers for skin-to-skin contact until they reach a certain weight—it was just me and her. I got some instructions on how to keep her clean with hospital-grade wipes and when to feed her, and that was about it. While she was in my care at that hospital, there was no one hovering over me, telling me what to do. When her cord fell off, I was advised to throw it out, and so I did. I took care of her by myself as I was supposed to. We had our own routine, and the only person missing from all this was her dad.

Living in different countries always meant that we were living on borrowed time, and this time was no different. So I wanted him to experience our daughter the same way I was. As much as I’m a first-time mom, he’s a first-time dad. There was no bone in my body that wanted to be any more separated than we already were while we were in the hospital. So, much to the dismay of many, as soon as we were discharged, I went straight home to my apartment so I could have the moments I wanted with my new little family before my mom arrived to take care of us. It was worth it because I got to rest knowing that my girl was with her dad.

I loved watching him fall in love with her while she was still tiny. Not later. That was another qualm I had with the tradition of the father not being allowed to be around the baby in the beginning stages. When I learned of the practice, I couldn’t help but feel as though it perpetuated the idea of a deadbeat. If fathers are immediately excluded from all things to do with the early stages of a life they helped create, why do we act shocked that there seems to be a disconnect in the relationship between fathers and their children? I’m not saying the practice is the sole reason, but it definitely contributes to it in one way or another. It’s not fair.

I think botsetsi is beautiful and necessary in the sense that someone is taking care of the mother by fixing her meals and giving her all the aid she needs so she can best take care of her baby. That’s something many people never get to experience. It felt amazing to have my partner do all that for me and more by taking over night shifts with our daughter so I could get my much-needed rest.

But like I said, following that rigidness was never going to be me, so my botsetsi was on my terms, even long after my mother and partner left. Solitude was something I no longer longed for after my pregnancy, where my agoraphobia heightened. I allowed visitors, and I took my daughter wherever I went—the mall, restaurants, the grocery store—nothing hectic. And more recently, we’ve been going on walks because we both needed fresh air and something to look at other than the four walls of my bedroom. It was always going to be unorthodox because I had to write exams. In the middle of one paper, and without my notice, I started to leak and drenched half my sweater in breast milk, which was very awkward for both me and the lecturer who noticed. In her defense, it was hard to miss. I also had to meet my legal clinic clients. The rest of the world did not stop when mine started to slow down, and no part of me expected it to.

Another qualm I had was the infantilization. A lot of adults and parents have kids they’re related to or know, and they struggle to let them be… grown, especially in communities and cultures like ours (BIPOC). I don’t think I’ve ever shied away from the wisdom of older generations, but the delivery matters most. That being said, it was frustratingly fascinating to be treated as an airhead who’s never had a single thought in her life. To be regarded as impulsive and disrespectful for simply having a mind of my own and making decisions about my child with my partner and no one else.

Understandably, the world was different 24 years ago. I had the resources to research pregnancy, motherhood, and the parenting style I wanted to adopt—how I want to maneuver my way through this new phase of life—at my fingertips. My elders did not, and they kept up with the behaviors and practices they were raised with. In addition, grown me doesn’t keep quiet anymore. I’m not a fan of being spoken to in certain ways simply because one feels they are older and therefore allowed to talk down to me. I don’t enjoy being bullied, so I stand up for myself. I don’t like being told what to do when I’ve decided how I want to move. How that is received is simply none of my business. The fact of the matter is, what some may consider as having your best interests at heart is simply them acting on what they know, rather than actually having your best interest at heart. I learned this by decentering my maternal figures, and one day my children might feel the same way when they decenter me and start living for themselves.

A few semesters ago, I learned that customary law is not static. It’s dynamic and transforms, albeit at a slow pace, with society. I believe that Tswana culture is beautiful as I continue to learn about it the longer I spend more time here. I started to appreciate some of its beauty in the last five years, and I’ve also noticed that people really adopt and maintain what is most convenient to them.

Clock. It.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. All I want is the opportunity to do the same as I continue to learn and grow. As I continue to navigate this journey of motherhood, culture, and self-discovery, I’ve realized that living authentically is my greatest act of resistance. I’m not here to shun tradition entirely or disrespect those who find meaning in it. But I also can’t force myself into a mold that doesn’t fit, especially when that mold is based on expectations I never signed up for.

Tswana culture, like all cultures, is a tapestry woven with history, values, and practices that have evolved over time. And as I learn more about it, I want the freedom to choose what resonates with me and leave behind what doesn’t. I believe in honoring the past while making space for the present—and the future I want to build for myself and my daughter.

At the end of the day, we all deserve the grace to live on our terms, especially when it comes to something as personal as motherhood. For me, that means blending tradition with modernity, leaning on my partner as my equal, and creating a life that reflects who I truly am, not just what others expect me to be.

And yes, I’ll continue to do what’s in the best interests of my little family, even if certain people—who I’ve never necessarily had a close relationship with—feel the need to inform the grapevine that they won’t be involved when it comes to me and my child. Their absence only solidifies my belief that this path, though unconventional to some, is precisely where I need to be.

So, here’s to evolving customs, to finding balance, and to the courage it takes to carve out your own path—even when it looks nothing like the one that came before. After all, this is my story, and I’m the one writing it.