A tale of four women

 

Grandma Laraba Zaku Her rasp voice blended into the innocence of the morning: ‘Oh, God, thank you for yesterday. I am not among the best of beings but you have kept me. You give food to the hungry, home to the homeless, clothing to the naked; surely you are God and ever will be. Now that the night has melted into a new day, may I glorify your name in this day.
Forgive our shortcomings and help us to be useful to the world and inherit the world beyond…’.After this manner did my grand mum begin her day. The words were often different. It sounded more like a conversation she was having with the God upstairs rather than a prayer to the Creator of the Universe.
Mama Laraba Zaku was a woman of faith and fortitude. As second wife to her husband, she was widowed at an early age. Her senior co-wife with whom she had a special relationship with also passed on, leaving her the burden of raising eleven children. Soon she settled into the routine of her life but did not allow her habitual obligation become drudgery. In the 87 years she lived, honour defined her. Neatness accompanied her. Her words were few and weighty and when she joked with us her grand kids, she did so with unmistakable grace and candour.
She was protective of us. Mothers Day calls to memory the finer virtues of human procreators and how those virtues shape us as unmistakably as it moulds the world. When the time came for Mama Laraba to go the way of all mortals, she predictably did so as gracefully as she had lived. “Nabiem, are you and your siblings here?
“; she asked my elder sister, “then I can now leave.” An hour after we left the hospital, a phone rang: Mama …has gone. How? But that was her style. Her life had neat edges from the trimmings of her experiences. When pain came she embraced it with a philosophy of a caretaker who holds in trust. When joy came, she opened her heart to sunshine-not too wide to get so used to the sunny rays that the rotation of the dark nights would be unfamiliar. That was the part of her life that intrigued me the most.
She never argued with culture. She rarely tried new things. Coveting was not her turf. Her simplicity sometimes got complicated: nothing ventured, nothing gained and the boat is not rocked. It sometimes elicits a chuckle that her bloodline has someone like me who constantly asks why; yet her tapered life remains a monument of a life of care and other-liness. A life where caring means sharing, where faith translates into good deeds and does not discriminate humans by tribe, creed or standing. On the day Mama Zaku descended six feet below, a flood of tears largely contributed by me escorted her to her grave. Simplicity had gone yet it left in its trail the profound reminder that life is not as difficult as we make it. Rest on maám. Time only numbed the pain, I doubt if a thousand years will fill the gap.
Grandma Janairu Ballason Her story is a comedy of sorts. I have a number of times written and played her script but her character was too strong to go with death. Every visitor that transited the village was entitled to a calabash of kunu. If she didn’t have some, she would ask the neighbours. In her world, a visitor was a communal responsibility and because she led the drill, other families knew to cooperate in her share-with-a-stranger initiative. Mama Janairu was physically strong, very strong. Even in old age, she went to the farm. she was foster mother to a lot of Fulani kids. She was an organic fertilizer batter merchant of some sorts.
She had style- very interesting style. When a day smelled of rain she could have her sunglasses on-for effect! When she wore ceremonial clothes, she walked in them courting attention to the efforts she invested in wearing those garments. The first of grandpas five serial wives, she rarely was intimidated by those who came after her because she was comfortable in her skin and reveled in the pristine culture of her father’s village. Öh Gyar!, she would say in muffled laughter. It was often her personal reminder of the greatness of her father’s house. She didn’t plan to return, but the expression came across as a reminder to my grandfather that he did not pick her from a lowly place and that she was too connected to be stranded. Mama’s days, like her ancestors before her soon came to an end. Her life reminds all women that the expression ‘weaker vessels’ should not be a convenient term for mental and physical laziness.
My Mother: Veronica Rose Ballason (Nee Kabam). The earliest story she told me was of Saul on his way to Damascus and how the blinding light claimed his sight but saved his soul. Saul later reclaimed both sight and soul and a new vista opened before him. I still have a mental picture of my wobbling knees in the kitchen as she told the story as though a direct witness of the Damascus experience. When our legs became strong enough to move, mummy took Gladys and I to any place where faith was preached. Sometimes we walked several miles when we could afford to go in a car or pick a cab.
It seems she wanted us to claim faith more seriously than the gratuitous manner it was handed down to us. She points at people whose lives she thinks are shining examples and did not spare the rod. Where our academics was in issue, she was firmly aligned to our dad’s dream of us being at the head of whatever we chose to be.
Mummy’s philosophy has always been that winning and failing are two sides of the same coin- a far flung ideology from our dad’s who doesn’t see failure as an option. I’ve always wondered what life would have been if my grandmas and mum were more defiant to the restraints of culture. I wonder what life would have looked like for them if they had more degrees, travel(ed) more and designed more intricate patterns of the architecture of their lives. Maybe Tehilla, my niece, may just be the fi t in the puzzle.
Tehilla Teiye Minyaik Davou From the first day I set eyes on her my heart adored Nma. At just four, Tehilla has impeccable diction and an imagination that can save Alice from her Wonderland.
She likes to set milestones and achieve them. When her classmates use bad words, she calls the words strange and reminds herself and others to stay away from them. If she loves you like she loves Yusha, your mistakes would be viewed in positive light; you will be insulated from sanctions.
I like that T-Mummy sees the world as her oyster. I wonder how long she will have her clear-rimmed binoculars on a future of possibilities. I am determined that as long as she has me she will not allow culture and religious bigotry define who she is or the worth of other humans around her. I hope she never fails to see the world through her own eyes. I pray that when she fails she will learn to receive healing, dust herself up and move on.
I hope when she changes diapers she never feels demeaned neither would she sign up on that as the exclusive lot of women. I hope she finds the courage to say no to wrong and yes to right and put steel to her convictions and confidence to her values.
I pray she doesn’t define being married to a wealthy man as an achievement and fails to make the wealth she wants through dint of hard work. You see, I am Tehillah’s number one fan as I am of Yahweh, Yusha and Yakirah. The wishes I have for Tehillah are what I wish for every woman on this year’s Mothers Day: May we shine bright and live full and right for we live only but for a moment. Happy Mothers’ Day.

Leave a Reply