The Last Days of My Grandmother by Yvonne Mwangi

Published in Qwani 01

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I orchestrated a conversation between life and death in the last days of my grandmother.

It was the third time I was thinking of her in death but I had only wanted to mourn her when present because I thought it better that way.

You know, at least I could see her then and remind her of the days when I was younger and she was stronger.

In those days when we would dip our feet in hot water before sunset and I would take the small bed close to the window of her small hut.

She made me believe that the night was not just a mere form of darkness but something eviler. Often talking about ogres and creatures with murky stares.

She loved the mornings. Woke up with the birds, and would pour some milk on the earth to thank the ancestors.

She would then gather wholesome seeds for the birds and would place them on the roof of the cowshed.

The birds were her totems, the rhythm of life and she graced upon them.

The birds would settle on her head when she was still. And when she was walking, they would amble behind her.

It was amazing really. Looking at these small creatures follow a human being like she was their own mother.

Yet she was always nonchalant. As if this was not in itself an expression of love but simply a way of life.

Those mornings would end with her seated on her wicker chair, taking herbs, with the birds next to her, and her mouth full of tales.

She spoke as if nature had a language with her. As the shadows would tell her what hour it was and the plants would tell her whether it would rain.

Those years are long gone, a lot has changed and we are indeed in the last days of my grandmother.

She’s older now. Her hands have weathered and she can no longer reach the roof of the cowshed. The birds still settle on her head but I’m not sure if she can really see them.

Her bones have started making strange noises and she is toothless. Her face, though creased and wrinkled is like a portrait of peace.

She’s on her wicker chair gravely silent. And I’m seated across her, in these last days of my grandmother. Wondering whether there’s a cure for old age.

A remedy for death.

The sympathy engulfs me and in silence, I mourn over her absence.

I have always wondered what it would be like to write her story. To live through her eyes, seeing and believing the things that she is part of.

Perhaps the story would sound like a form of superstition.

For I would say that she whispered my name into a pot of boiling water to invoke my presence when I was afar.

She believed that the steam from this pot of boiling water would carry the message to me. Remind me to make a visit to her and bring her a sack of beans.

Or maybe it would sound like a premonition.

Because maybe the day I would write it, I would invoke her death. You see, sometimes the things we write and think about often come to pass.

I would have killed my grandmother in thought. Finally accepted that these are her last days in physicality and human shape.

I would start imagining life without her. Quiet birds, an empty wicker chair, an aura desolate and with a lack of kindness.

I assume she would be buried in the garden, next to my mother’s grave. For it is the only grave that has some space next to it.

Three of her children are dead, and some labikka weeds and obiya grass grow on their graves. The other two went to the city and never came back.

I would wake up with the birds that morning. And pour them some seeds on the roof of her cowshed. I would then sit on her wicker chair and put on her silk headband.

I would then blow the horn. Alert people in their homes of a death. A peaceful death of an old woman.

I would await the young men to come with hoes and spades that would dig up her grave.

I would read the time using the shadows and when it was the 11th hour, I would wrap her body in her silk bed sheet and ask the women to help me carry her to her death home.

We would sing some hymns, make some chants and say a series of short prayers. The birds would chirp if they noticed her absence.

“The gods are waiting for me. You have to call my children.” Go, look for my children and tell them I am going to the gods.”

It’s almost as if she read my mind.

I wonder what to tell her. She seems to have forgotten that her children are already dead. Waiting for her in the dead world.

And the disappearance of the other two.

I tell her that perhaps she should use the pot of boiling water to send them her dying message. It’s hard to remind her of reality.

She looks at me frantically but she does not say anything.

Moments later, she mentions that if she dies before I wed. Then my bridewealth should be buried with her. She will need it in her next life.

I nod. If I ever wed.

Noon has already passed and she is still on her wicker chair. I tell her I am going to gather some flowers from the garden.

I pass by the graves of her children. I have to tell them that these are the last days of my grandmother and they should prepare a beautiful place for her.

Perhaps send her a message from the dead world for she has been asking for them.

I can hear footsteps behind me. They’re the footsteps of my grandmother. She followed me to the Graves of her children.

“Are these my children”

“Yes, three of them.”

“Where are the others?”

“I don’t know.”

She looks at the graves of her children and then tailors her eyes into mine.

She tells me that she has been dreaming of white horses. An owl has settled on the roof of her granary.

She is going to die within the week.

My feet feel weak and I want to tell her that it is simply a dream. But my grandmother does not believe in absolute dreams.

She looks at the graves of her children again. The valleys below her eyes look teary. She says their graves look ugly and forgotten. Just as the children who disappeared.

The sympathy chokes me and I am struggling to accept that these are the last days of my grandmother.

I must have invoked her death. I should have avoided all this thinking and premonition.

I tell her that the orphans she left behind will be mothered, and the labikka weeds and obiya grass that grow on the graves of her children will be weeded.

And the ground around the mounds will be kept tidy.

She nods.

We then walk back, the birds closely behind her, and a death hanging on her neck.

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To communicate further with the writer, find her on:

Email: yvonnemwangi7700@gmail.com

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Photo by Anastasia Bladyko