My grandmother hated the English. As far as she was concerned, the only two useful contributions they ever made to the world were tea and hot water bottles. On many freezing nights, as we waited for the water to boil on the Aga stove in their farm kitchen, she would tell the story of my great-grandfather’s time as a prisoner of war on St Helena. I was also horrified by her stories of suffering of women and children at the hands of the British in the concentration camps during the Second Boer War.

“That is why I will never speak English”, she would say firmly. “It is a matter of principle.”

She would then chuckle as she told a story of the three-month royal visit in 1947 by King George VI, his wife and the two princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. Part of their visit included a 4900-mile train journey. Along their journey thousands of people waived them along. (“Traitors”, my grandmother would sigh). Apparently, the wild cosmos were in full bloom in parts of the Free State and, according to my grandmother, at some station the Queen got out and thanked the local people for “their gigantic effort of planting the beautiful flowers for their visit.” “Imagine the arrogance, the stupidity,” my grandmother would laugh.  

Of course, a year later the National Party came to power and there would be no further royal visits. In 1961, HF Verwoerd informed Queen Elizabeth that South Africa would leave the Commonwealth and shortly after, we became a republic.

Years later, HF Verwoerd’s widow, Betsie, told me that she got along “really well” with Queen Elizabeth. According to Ouma Betsie, they continued to exchange Christmas cards. “She signs hers Elizabeth R and I sign mine Elizabeth V,” she smiled.

In 1995, after South Africa’s transition to democracy, the Queen returned to South Africa. On the day of her arrival, the live television showed, for what seemed like hours, the royal yacht nearing Cape Town Harbour. It finally docked in the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, where it stayed for the duration of the visit. Apparently on the second night of the visit, someone made an announcement over one of the public address systems, asking people to please keep the noise down so that Her Majesty could sleep. A friend of mine who was in one of the clubs said that there was a momentary silence as the message sank in, but of course then the noise levels doubled.

Back in Parliament where I was now an MP, there was an unusual amount of excitement. Many of the ANC leaders, not least of all the speaker Frene Ginwala and then deputy president Mbeki, had fond memories of their time in exile in the United Kingdom. Remembering my grandmother, I was a bit more ambivalent. At some stage there were rumours that we would have to wave little Union Jacks, but that thankfully never happened. We were, however, asked to sing God Save our Queen (on account of now being part of the Commonwealth again), which I found difficult. I had no objection to singing God Save the Queen, but she was really not my queen.

Her carefully crafted speech went off without mishaps, and that evening I was invited to a function at the British High Commission. There I got to meet her husband Prince Philip, but I was shocked when he (true to form) expressed a very controversial opinion on AIDS and birth control in Africa to one of my parliament colleagues, who was standing next to me in the line-up.

How I wished I could have told my grandmother, who had by then passed, the story.

Six years later, in 2011, Queen Elizabeth came to Ireland while I was there as head of UNICEF. It was a momentous and deeply emotional occasion for both her and the Irish nation. For the Queen the memory of the death of her beloved second cousin and confidant Lord Mountbatten by an IRA bomb must have been ever present as were the centuries of brutal British oppression for the Irish.

Her visit was hugely significant, being the first by any British monarch since the Irish Republic was declared during the uprising of 1916. Yet, finally on invitation from President Mary McAleese, the Queen came, and between these two phenomenal women, centuries of deep, painful wounds were healed. The Queen spoke Irish and drank Guinness. She laid reefs and acknowledged Irish pain. President McAleese was warm ,and yet proud and strong, leading her nation to a point of acceptance and- perhaps even- forgiveness.

It was during her visit to Ireland that my view about the Queen changed. As someone who understood politics and international diplomacy, I admired her fierce determination to be there when many in both Britain and Ireland thought it was a bad idea.  Watching the skill and grace with which she negotiated this very difficult visit, left me in awe.

As a woman I remain moved by the fact that - even though she was never meant to be queen - she took on these duties at the age of 25 and literally did so for the rest of her life. I’m sure that even my grandmother would have been impressed by the fact that she was still carrying out her duties when she received the new Prime Minister just two days before her death.

Above all, as a feminist, I must bow my head to a woman who for 70 years remained a head of state, one who survived 15 Prime Ministers, 14 US Presidents and 7 popes. And whilst governing her country and the Commonwealth she - like any other mother - also had to deal with all the trials and tribulations of her often dysfunctional family.

Queen Elizabeth’s passing is truly the end of an era.

With Charles, William and George, we will not see a female monarch in Britain again for a very long time, and so an important and influential female voice has become silent.  

Caroline Myss recently remarked that when anyone around the world spoke of the Queen, we all knew who they referred to. It was not the Spanish, Danish, or Dutch queen. It was Queen Elizabeth II.  I doubt that this will be true of any of her successors.

And so, with apologies to my grandmother, I want to say: “Hamba Kahle Queen Elizabeth. God did indeed save you for a long time. May you now rest in peace”.