"Dira, Èfɔ̃a ?"

Rest well Mamie.

We are obsolete and truly, none of this life on earth means anything when it’s time to go. I’ve lost my grandmother yesterday. She has gone on peacefully, at last. My mind is a blur and I don’t think this is normal. She was here in the morning, and then at night, she was not.

Her English name is Comfort, which in Akan/Ewe is Akofa. She went by both. In Ewe, we call her Kokoe, which means sacred, holy. And that, she was. She was born in Ghana and moved to Togo right after until she came to America. My grandpa, Papi, always yelled Kokoe day long. You could hear him yell from two blocks down. The neighbors might ask why the street is so quiet. When I called Papi on Tuesday, after my mom and dad broke it to me, all he said was that Kokoe abandoned him, and she’s gone on to leave him alone. Oh Papi, she’s abandoned us all. For me, and her nineteen other grandkids, we call her Mamie. Mamie is the mom of my mom, grandma in French. Mamie would have turned eighty years old on May 30th, this year. Only a few months away. A long life some may say, but not enough for us. It’ll never be enough time. And now she’s so far but the clock still ticks. You are never coming back? I am confused. Terribly confused. You have to be here.

We loved her. I loved her. Truly and unconditionally, and she did not deserve none of this. In less than two months, she went from being healthy and alive, to simply being gone. I had questions for God, but I’ll decide to just trust Him instead. Because right now, I don’t think I know where else to turn to. As prepared as she’s made us, slowly wilting away (#CancerSucks and so does the healthcare system), making her presence less and less felt through the sickness, her body was still here, and that alone made it bearable. Is it selfish that I want her back even though I know she is better where she is? Is that what our existences mean? She deserved better. She really was just a girl. My girl.

I have gone on her WhatsApp page over five times to just listen to the voice notes she’s left me over the years. They all start with “Allo? Dira, Èfɔ̃a?”, asking me how I am in our native tongue. It’s thanks to her that I can still speak Ewe well today. I stopped speaking it when I moved to France as a child and though I understood it, I stopped responding back. When I came to America, I pushed myself hard and she pushed me too. She spoke French, but it only felt right to respect her by speaking in our native tongue. And little by little, it all came back. I’ve saved all the voice notes to my files. I went back through the pictures and scrolled. There were fewer than I’d hoped over the last years. I pray the memories I still have remain. I remember when I used to be home with her as a three or four years old blabber-mouth. My mom would go work and I would stay home with my grandma, and play in her hair, pretending I brush it. She had beautiful hair back in her days, thick and full. Even when she cut it years later, her head was still full. She was a beautiful woman.

And this is not about me, but I’ll make it, because I am hurt and I have to live in and with that. Watching her getting sick so quickly made me feel so guilty that I did not call enough or return the calls. I feel regret knowing that I did not visit enough even when I could. She loved me so much. Her and my grandpa. I was their first grand-child, their second daughter as they said. She loved my brother, too, deeply. He is their eight grandchild. There are twenty of us. And selfishly, Joseph and I were the main ones who spent our best years loved and cared for by them two. Whenever my brother came to visit from France, he’d spend the days summer days with them, on their couch, just talking, all day. In the mornings they’ve came to spend at my house last year after I graduated, they’d call me to tell me they went on walks in the neighborhood while I went to work. I know he will miss her terribly. Joseph, when you read this, I hope you know that this pain you feel is only because you’ve known so much love. And I promise that we will be okay. I got you, and I know you got me too.

I stayed in bed all day but life moved so fast today, and my head is still spinning faster than the earth is rotating. The tears have been coming and going. There are many on the keyboard right now. And at times it’s tears of anger, other times despair. Tears of joy, I wait for you. Simple joy, come back too. The condolences text are appreciated but they make it so real and as soon as I think of something else, the thoughts come right back. I hate moping but this is too dark.

I tried all day but I couldn’t call my grandpa. I waited for tonight. He’s home and I can tell he wants to be left alone for a bit. I tried to stay strong on the phone and not let the tears flow. But his voice broke me. I rushed off the phone so I could cry again. He’s turning eight-five next week. And yesterday, he’s lost his best friend of over sixty-five years. Childhood sweethearts. No marriage is perfect. Theirs was not but they stayed and made it work. He stayed by her side, night and day for almost two months while she was hospitalized. He fed her while she could no longer lift her hands. He clothed her and held her hand. Not a perfect marriage, but damn, certainly good people. Who loved each other and who knew nothing but life with each other in it. How do you stay with someone your entire life, for that long, and then one day, they aren’t here anymore?

And then, there’s my mom, who’s had a bit over 51 years and she’s the strongest of us all. She lost her everything. They were inseparable, even oceans away. On the phone all day. Telling the same stories that they knew by heart but had to tell one more time to make sure they didn’t forget a detail. And it hurts to know that as valiant as she is, Mommy is heartbroken, and nothing will be able to fix it. We’ll try to put the pieces back together though, her, Joseph, Papi and I. Even my father. She was his mom too. Even though my parents have been divorced for years, lately, we’ve remembered that we’ll all always be a family. We’ll just have to learn how without the one who held us together. It pains me to think that on top of losing Mamie, one day my mom won’t be there either. And my unborn children will lose me too? What is this life even about? It’s hard to not think about without sounding morbid, but truly, how do people survive this and continue on? I made my mom promise me that we will live healthily, even more than we do now. I miss her and I cannot wait to see her. Another promise my mom and I made to each other is that we’ll honor her. Her life dream was to see the Eiffel Tower. And I promised her we’ll make it happen. It was supposed to, this year actually. And here we are. We waited. We had to wait. And now she’s gone. Forever. I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower many times. But when I go this year, it’ll be for her. My mom also promised to teach me all the recipes that my grandma made for me and that I loved so much. Every time I went there, she still took care of me the same way when I was a child. And now, you’re telling me I won’t ever eat from her plate again? Man that lady could cook. Not just what you say to your mama’s cooking. She could really cook! I’ll try to make gumbo for my birthday this year myself since she won’t be there to. She won’t be there for many things.

As positive as I know I’ll have to be, I have to force myself that it will take time. This one, I can’t compartmentalize. I cuts deep and I feel it all over my chest, my face, my entire body. I don’t want to make this just about me, or my family. I know she was loved, everywhere. The church, the community, us. Those who have met her always thought she quiet and reserved. False. She is fierce. Though she came from a generation that taught her to shrink, she was strong in her calmness. She made us laugh. She was so fun and cool. When I got my piercings, I was so scared of what my mom would say. My grandpa always had a comment. She was the only one who’s always loved it and told me to just enjoy my life and to live for myself. A deeply Christian woman. But isn’t that what we’re really supposed to be? And she was so smart. She knew so much. Random facts. History, geography, politics, maths. If she had gone to college, man we might have been millionaires. But I did that for her. She cried when I finished school, and told me how proud she was. She was also wise, and always encouraged us to do better and act better. “Kneel down and give it to God” was her remedy. Even when the matter required words or fists. She told us to just give Him our battles. If I am mature and wise beyond my years, it’s because I took pride in the example she set. Now her daughter? My mom? She’ll use her words. And I can be like her too. I am the best versions of the women who held and raised me. And today, only one remains hearthside, but both within my spirit,

I’ll love you forever and ever, and truly, I pray that you take care of our spirits, the same way you took care of our hearts while you were here. I’ll miss your hugs. I’ll miss calling you and coming over to just talk. My promise to you is that I’ll take care of your baby for you. I got her, the same way you did. Your grand-baby too. And as long as I am able, my grandpa, the love of your life, will be cared for too. You blessed me, eternally, and I can’t wait for the days you’ll say “Dira, Èfɔ̃a?” again. It is well.

Until later,

Mel