Long before the signs of Lewy Body dementia emerged, I found solace in capturing my mother’s conversations, motivated by my own struggles. Listening to her stories of origin provided me with grounding, joy, and a connection when I felt adrift. Despite the strains in our shared history, there was an undeniable pride and joy in her voice as she recounted tales of her family; Petronella truly came alive when speaking of her parents and children. Our disagreements often clouded our relationship, yet those moments illuminated the love she held for me.

As her dementia progressed and her protective barriers began to fall, I gained deeper insight into her life as she shared stories she had long shielded me from as her daughter. Through her revelations of struggles and demons, I acquired context and a glimpse into her emotional landscape, which, in turn, offered direction for my own healing journey. For these invaluable moments, I will always be grateful to the impacts of dementia. Petronella’s family hails from the Zambian Tonga tribe, believed to be the first settlers in Northern Rhodesia, now Zambia, during the 12th century. Her parents, Paul and Clara Dyamini, both deceased, had ten children, and Petronella was the third eldest among them.

Clara, with her tireless spirit and infectious smile, navigated the storms of life with grace, enduring the loss of her beloved husband Paul and six precious children, yet her heart overflowed with love as she embraced her growing family of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, each one a testament to her resilience and nurturing soul, and it was only natural that my mother, inspired by Clara’s adventurous spirit and boundless curiosity, would embark on her own journeys, exploring the world with the same fervor and passion that defined her remarkable matriarch.

Petronella proudly identified as a daddy’s girl and a bit of a tomboy. She dreamed of attending high school, and from there, she aspired to go to university. In her community, many girls her age often stopped their education at middle school, either getting married or helping at home instead.

She spent her formative years at St Joseph’s boarding school, a prestigious Catholic institution for girls managed by Irish sisters, a detail her mother would always clarify, emphasizing they were known as sisters, not nuns. St Joseph’s had a reputation for its strict discipline, which Petronella would often reflect on with a mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.

Those sisters certainly upheld the rules with an iron fist, a fact she would recount with a chuckle. The students were required to keep their hair cropped short, without any traditional braids. Their uniforms had to be impeccably clean, well-pressed, and fall below the knee. White socks had to be impeccably pulled up, and their shoes had to shine like mirrors.

The girls slept on metal bunk beds that creaked at the slightest movement, a constant reminder of the school’s austere environment. The fear of bedwetting loomed large for the younger students, as it faced serious consequences.

During the week, breakfast was a simple porridge, while weekends offered a rare treat of bread with either butter or jam and a cup of tea. Lunch consisted of the staple maize meal, known as nshiima, often accompanied by vegetables and beef stew. Chicken made an appearance only on special occasions, reserved for the sisters.

All forms of communication with the opposite gender during school terms was strictly prohibited. The sisters would open and read every single letter sent to the girls and if you received a letter from a boy, you could get whipped or depending on the content, suspended from school. It was a grave sin to fraternise with boys.

The girls learned maths, English, French and home economics as core subjects. Geography was taught to the older girls, but not the local geography, instead they learned British geography and British history.

Native languages were not permitted to be used whilst at school and swift punishments were dealt for speaking any language other than English – even to your friend. At no point were the girls allowed to practice any of their traditions whilst at school and according to Mum the closest they would get to their cultural roots was playing the drums in church or as they sang songs taught to them by the sisters. To continue a sense of traditional identity, the girls relied upon elder students to teach them local history, customs and traditions covertly during school breaks.