Of all the love stories I have read and heard, my grandmother’s love story stands out tall above the rest. My grandfather was a merchant who traveled far and wide with his bicycle. As a result, his trade took him to a tiny hamlet where my grandmother was born and raised.
At this time, there were many girls of marriageable ages in the hamlet. Men travelled from neighbouring towns and villages to seek their hands in marriage.
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The night before my mother died was nothing out of the ordinary. She chose to cook that night, we were all asleep before the food was ready, but, she woke us all up. I remember the last meal she made for us, it was seasoned rice locally called “concoction”. As we ate, she started a conversation with me about my cousin whom she felt was pregnant. I listened half-asleep. It was a very dark night and the breeze seized, it was hot and humid.
My mother was extremely quiet the following morning. She had a distant look I couldn’t explain. I had an appointment to see a friend that morning. My friend was still in university and she had sent me an errand to her sister. I sneaked out of the house, not because I didn’t want my mother to know where I was going. No. I sneaked out because I wore her favourite shoes and I knew she was going to wear those shoes to work. I told her out of sight that I was going to my friend’s and she said “Okay bye ” so weakly. That was the last time I saw my mother alive.
By the time I returned home, my mother had left for work. I remember visiting another friend of mine who promised job opportunity. I was fresh out of university and I was ready to start a new life. As I sat at the reception, waiting for my friend to come out, I remember thinking of home. The visit to my friend’s office was fruitless because he didn’t have the time to see me throughout my stay. He had workloads as high as a mountain.