“Ga gona mosadi le monna ba ba tshwanang – le bana ba Modimo ba a fapana.”
(No woman and man are the same – even the children of God differ.)
We live in times where our children’s differences are pathologized, given labels like ADHD, autism, ODD, SPD. The West calls it “neurodivergence.” In their language, it means: this one’s brain moves differently from the so-called norm. And because of that, they must be studied, managed, maybe even medicated.
But let me tell you something, my people.
In the village, there was no such thing as a disordered child.
There was just a child.
A spirit.
A rhythm.
And that rhythm was read by the community, not feared. Guided by the village, not punished by the system. The elders didn’t know words like “executive dysfunction” or “sensory processing disorder” – but they knew children. They knew energy. They knew patterns. They knew that a child is not a machine to be calibrated, but a soul to be held.
Let me remind you how we used to do it:
The Curious One
The child who keeps opening things, dismantling tools, staring too long at a wheel turning.
In the village: we gave them broken pots to play with. Let them walk with the one who fixes tools or sets animal traps.
We said: “This one will be a craftsman.”
Not: “This one has OCD.”
The Dreamer
The one who stares at the sky, forgets instructions, and talks to trees.
In the village: they walked with the herbalist. They were left alone under the tree to dream.
We said: “This one sees far.”
Not: “This one is inattentive.”
The Climber
The one who can’t sit still. Running. Jumping. Restless.
In the village: sent to herd goats. Fetch water. Run messages to other homesteads.
We said: “This one has strong legs.”
Not: “This one has ADHD.”
The Silent One
The one who didn’t speak when expected.
In the village: no pressure. They were given a drum, or left with the grandmother who speaks through song.
We said: “This one is touched by spirit.”
Not: “This one is delayed.”
The Fighter
The one who challenges authority, breaks rules.
In the village: we paired them with the village warrior. Taught them hunting. Discipline. Purpose.
We said: “This one is a leader.”
Not: “This one is defiant.”
The Gentle Soul
The one who covered their ears at noise, avoided the crowd.
In the village: given clay to play with, a quiet task, or time by the stream.
We said: “This one hears more than others.”
Not: “This one is too sensitive.”
The Talkative One
The one who asks “why” too much. Always narrating, always interrupting.
In the village: they were taught proverbs. Given riddles. Sat with the oral historians.
We said: “This one is a griot in training.”
Not: “This one talks too much.”
So what happened to us?
We left the village.
We chased “modernity.”
We outsourced our knowing to clinics, consultants, and chemicals.
We forgot.
But the village is not dead. It lives in us. In our memory. In our stories. In our ways of watching a child and saying: “Ah, I see you.”
This blog post is not calling for anti-science. We respect science. But we also respect ancestral intelligence. We remember that before there were clinics, there were grandmothers who knew. Before diagnosis, there was discernment.
BraPeter.co.za is not a nostalgia museum. It is a homecoming site. It reminds us that healing doesn’t only come from looking forward — sometimes, it comes from looking back with fresh eyes.
Let us reclaim our knowing.
Let us speak gently about our children.
Let us build new systems that recognize that diversity is not disorder. It is life.
“Maropeng go a boelwa.”
Sankofa
If this message touched you, share it. If you’re raising a child that the world says is ‘too much’ or ‘not enough’ — remember: maybe they are just enough for the world we are still building.
Ke a leboga.
Bra Peter