Who her mother was; Who she is and Who I am.

When my grandmother died on the 19th of January 2016, I made an attempt to eulogize her. I was going to protect the little memories I had of her till I realized I didn’t know so much. I knew she had my mum and other children, I was a teenager before I realized not all my grandmother’s children had the same surname and the name I thought was my mums maiden surname was one she had adopted to save her from the identity crisis she grew up with, but I digress.

My grandmother and I shared a room when I was really young and I always thought she was a difficult person to live with. She had strong religious/superstitious beliefs, e.g, not wearing black clothes, or wearing anything black in general. We didn't just share a room, we also shared a bed, and my grandma would never want anything black or red on the bed we both shared.

I didn't like my grandmother much, which was mostly because I didn't know her well enough. I thought she was mean and in a part of my mind, I was convinced she was a witch. In retrospect, I realize how destructive that thought was, she was mean then probably because she didn't know better. I also thought she was wicked but she was just a perfectionist who won't stop till everything was done right.

Sometimes I talk to my oldest sister about what it was like growing up with my grandmother and she has stories for days, a lot of stories I’ll never be able to relate to. My grandmother spoke perfect English and liked to brag about how she was taught the English language by the brits themselves. She was a gorgeous woman with very long hair, curly hair, very much like my mums and nothing like mine.

Every time I try to write about her, I get lost in different memories of her. Things I have either buried or forgotten about. I believe my recollection of her is lost in a maze. I remember she loved to sing, she had a really beautiful, thin, loud but sonorous voice. She had a favourite Yoruba song she sang so often, and had the same prayer on her lips daily ‘ki oluwa ma bo asiri wa’ which means ‘may God continue to cover our secrets.’

She said the same prayer every day, I thought she was ashamed of our lives or hers. Maybe there were truths she never wanted to let out, or maybe the prayer was what she had gotten used to over time, it could have been a past shame that had stuck with her. I’ll never know. I don’t pray that prayer anymore, truthfully I don’t remember to pray so much anymore.

I stated earlier that my memories of my grandmother are lost in a haze, so I write as I remember. I may have disliked my grandmother numerous times and in countless ways throughout my life with her, but in the moments I loved her, I am really sure I loved her.

She wasn’t fond of me or overly friendly with me, but she protected me each time I got in a row with my sister. I knew I could always run behind my grandmother to hide and my sister would not be able to touch me. I knew I could leave my clothes soaked in the bathroom we both shared and my grandmother will wash them sparkling clean. I knew I could leave the room untidy because my grandmother will always clean it up.

If you’ve read this far I’m going to take a moment to applaud you. I don’t know if it’s the curiosity to know how this story ends, or if I sucked you in with how much of a tacky writer I am. But thank you for reading this far.

Maybe I’ll make this a series, maybe I’ll finish it up one day. I hope my mum is open to conversation about her mother beyond the passive-aggressive relationship I witnessed them have. In the time I shared with them, I didn’t experience so much friendship between them. They respected each other the way a mother will respect a child and my mum did her duties as a daughter.