GRANDMA

 

POEM BY AFOLABI MIRACLE AYOMIDE

(mimiafo25@gmail.com)

Left so sudden

Leaving a name

Days come and go; 

Yet, memories remain 

Hoping to rest now 

But wishes remain

A life to remember

Celebration became my part

The sun's warm touch, 

The breeze's gentle sway, 

The beauty that surrounds, 

I wish you were here to behold

A heart at peace

Your legacy stays 

Forever cherished

Forever loved

We rarely spent time with her. We only saw her once in every century. We all called her “Mama”.

Every Christmas, Dad would drive us down to his hometown to see Mama (as he fondly called her too). Therefore we tried to cherish every moment with her because the next time of seeing her would be after another 365 days.

When I was younger, I remember vividly that she was still managing to walk with a walking stick. That stick (which we all called “Mkpara” ‘a mighty staff’ in our local dialect) was powerful, or that I perceived it to be. Mama was hot-tempered. She would shout when triggered, and she could also use her ‘Mkpara’ to express her anger. As such, the moment she began to boil with rage, everyone was nowhere to be found; not even the farm animals, roaming about the compound.

There were a lot of stories where Mama had made several unsuccessful attempts to strike some of her stubborn grandchildren with her ‘Mkpara’. But of course, we were all younger, vibrant, and faster than her; so, before she reached for the staff; we must have reached the door to our house. 

As such, we were always careful whenever we sat close to Mama. No one was ready to be a victim, talk more of a laughing stock.

One thing I loved about visiting her during the festive periods, was that her room was always stocked with cartons of Crackers Biscuits; the yellow ones with little or no sugar in them. She would call on my Dad's sister to bring one for her and share the rest for us the grandchildren.

Then she would bite into one of the pieces of biscuits with her frail teeth which still had a bit of strength in them, and then encourage us to eat ours. As kids in our prime; we would grin with joy and heartfelt appreciation and I would be the first to finish mine to get more. But as usual, I would be stopped by the offensive stare of my mum; a normal gesture by every African mum towards any child’s excessive behavior.

“This isn’t your house; respect yourself and hold your throat or I’ll cut it” she would mutter to me.

One thing about Mama was that she loved to tell stories; real-life stories. Everyone from her family had one or more unbelievable life stories, and these stories were always motivational and inspiring.

Mama also used proverbs, and I’m very sure that’s where my dad grasped a great percentage of them.

Stories like when her last-born twins went missing for months (during the Nigerian civil war), the era of the slave trade in our hometown, and the likes. Mama would always talk about her late husband and how they both struggled in the course of raising their 8 children. Boy! I could understand Raising five kids, but eight of them would have been a hell of a ride.

She never ended a story without singing songs. And during these songs, she would act as if she wanted to go back to her maker at that moment. Once she had closed her eyes in front of us and asked God whether it was time for Him to take her; leaving me to wonder “What kind of woman is this?”

One special thing about her and her grandkids was that she gave us names in our local dialects. Strange but Mighty names; it was rare for someone else to bear some of these names outside the community, and she would constantly tell us that these names would follow us wherever we went. The only name which wasn’t a name from our dialect was that of my younger sister whom mum gave birth to, in Germany. And then Mama decided to call her Germany. Though we never gave much thought to the name; at some point it sounded a bit hilarious, to call my sister Germany.

“Germany, I am hungry”

“Germany, have you slept?”

“Germany, Dad is calling you”

Anyway, I strongly believed in the power of those names; and even without believing, I’d already seen it reflecting in our lives. Mama gave me a long name; with a deep meaning.

“Onyechinegbughi”

“The person God did not kill” 

And since being a kid; I’d seen people struggle to pronounce that name. They never got it right; even after three trials. It only flowed well on the lips of the one who gave me the name; mama.

Every next time we saw Mama, she was aging rapidly. From bending to walk; to using walking sticks for support; to being wheeled on a wheel chair; then sitting on her bed in the room; forever and ever. That was where she spent the remaining part of her life; on that bed.

On the first day of the year; by midnight, we would gather for a general family prayer in which every member of the extended family was present at mama’s house.

And once it was concluded, we would all march into Mama’s room. Our voices ascended to the roof as we all tried to greet Mama in our local dialect; “Mama Isaalachi” (Mama Good morning).

As usual, she would be sitting on her bed, grinning from ear to ear; happy that her children had come around to see her after another 365 days. We would then pray with her and wish her New Year blessings; she would also pray for us and bless everyone. “Chineke Nonyere unu” (God be with you all) she would say.

It went on like this for years; until we came to understand that she was one of the main reasons for us traveling down to the village. 

I was in school when I received a message that she was dead. That was on a fateful night on October 30th. I’d been making plans to see her during the December period. I knew she was aging rapidly and that she could leave anytime, but then I didn’t want to accept the fact that it would ever happen. If possible I’d have asked God to keep her sitting on that bed in her room, and always be alive for us. So that every new year season we would all come and pray for her and let her pray for us too.

After pondering on her death; I decided to take it as a celebration of life. I was told that she died in her sleep.

“It was peaceful, she slept and never woke up,” Dad told me the next morning over the phone.

POEM BY ADEBANJO ABIOLA DEBORAH;

(abioladeborah123@gmail.com)

The air sighs with sorrow,

The grass withers, dry and hollow.

The earth trembles, whispering low,

"Must I now swallow, let you go?"

The road ahead is steep and tight,

I ask, "Is this the final sight?"

My heart bleeds, the old bones are now broken 

Alas,

Ready to sleep in peace, no more to ache

The mighty elephant fades away,

The towering tree has had its day.

Adieu, the word I now must say,

As silence takes the light of day.