Wuraola

“Ope, my mother is dead.”

Those were the first words from my mum on the phone.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my grandma, but I’m sure she has many of me.

She raised me as a kid, and taught me to speak Yoruba. Every time we spoke, she’d call me all these glorious names (Oriki), and then ask me to send airtime.

“Akanni omo olufe”. This one particularly stuck with me.

My grandma’s name was Wura, and true to her name, she was golden.

She was the most agile, brilliant, entrepreneurial old woman I knew. Even at 91, she was on her feet, cooking for guests, juggling trades, representing communities.

But then she had a fall, and had to be mostly bedridden for the latter part of her life.

This was the most painful thing about her death.

A few weeks after my grandma died, the tears finally came.

I bawled like never before. I cried until there was mucus.

It felt weird because we only spoke occasionally, but the bond was there. And deep.

It felt like someone who was holding me had let go.

I wish I could say more about my grandma, but this is all I have.

My mum wrote an essay (The Passage), and she does a much better job.

Thank you for loving us, grandma. And thank you for waiting for Nife.