My Grandmother Mmesoma Eze   © Copyright 2025 by Mmesoma Eze

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

My grandmother looked frail in her incredibly long, colourful, butterfly dress. Years ago, she walked confidently: no aid, no shaky legs, and no glasses. My mom said that she was meant to be stronger, but my grandfather’s illness had weighed her down. In trying to assist him, her strength gradually waned. The burden took charge, made her sit at a place, and let age do its work. Now, only thinking of climbing a staircase wearied her to her bones. Oh, she just put a shell amongst the seeds!

My grandmother had always been quiet. From the stories my mum told, she was the calm parent. Her discipline involved a soft rebuke and held more weight than my grandfather’s bellowing. With 10 children to care for, there was only so much she could say and still stay sane, as these kids were an integral part of her life. If I were to be honest, I admired that approach, especially as it was almost impossible to achieve.

Despite her quietness, I knew my grandmother had a lot of stories to tell. She was wise, and not just because she was aged; the wisdom she held radiated off of her. Her face alone spoke of it, and every wrinkle on her skin marked an experience. Judging from the stories my mum told me, she had faced so much. Yet…yet, her face was continually peaceful. I started to feel the cursed water filling my eyes as I recalled some of those stories.

She had never gone to school. Not because she refused to or because she could not. As the eldest daughter, it was constantly repeated that farming was more important than schooling. Her siblings, however, were left to “waste their lives” at school. “She had something tangible, and her siblings didn’t,” were her parents’ words. Maybe her parents believed they were right then, but we will never know. But we know that the effect of this no-education ordeal caused my grandmother to ensure all her kids went to school. She did everything she had to, no matter how hard it was. And it was hard because it all took a toll on her. Now, she needed caring, and it was up to her descendants, who, I’m proud to say, are excelling.

“The mother… now the child”. This reminded me of the question: Who came first, the chicken or the egg? In this case, the egg and chicken had exchanged roles. I put my hands on my waist and laughed in my mind, as a smile formed on my face. The paradox was weirdly enlightening and honest. She provided, now she was provided for; she catered, now she was catered for. Not like she wanted any of it, however. For anything in the world, she wanted to be strong again and in charge again. Sometimes, she was so defiant that she overdid things and made my mum shout. She was no longer strong and had to learn to live with it.

I thought of myself and my ever-increasing need to be independent. Weren’t we all that way? Learning to stop must have been a struggle for her because it would be for me, too. To finally let go of something you had been holding onto for so long, something that, over time, had become your “worth,” so to speak. Letting go would have felt like losing, like admitting to a weakness even though it was not. Quitting also requires a certain level of strength, and this strength was one my grandmother was coming to terms with. That did not stop her from shelling seeds, though. I giggled in my mind as I moved my feet slightly apart for comfort, but these actions went unnoticed. I felt like a superhero for a moment. Miss invisible, maybe?

Most of her senses had waned over the years, but her thoughts increased instead. I was sure she was in thought at every moment and was in one now. She probably thought of her thoughts and the thoughts that birthed those thoughts for her to think for so long. Ha! One thing I was certain of was that she relived her past occasionally. Her conversations with me- mainly in Igbo, our dialect- consisted primarily of the upbringing of her children, her late husband and her childhood. These conversations had friction as I struggled with speaking in Igbo, and she struggled with understanding English. But the heart-to-heart happened anyway; some stories brought sadness to the atmosphere while others brought cheek-aching laughter. My mother always said, "There is a point in time someone gets to, and all they do is look back”. Was my grandmother at that point?

I looked away from her for a moment as I thought of myself. I guess growing old was something else, and the thought of it was daunting. How would I cope? My mouth tugged downwards, and my heart slowed to a sad beat. I breathed in deeply to ease my heart rate. Is this what we’ll all face? Would I, one day, need help walking or not realize I put a shell amongst seeds? …No, I did not appreciate the thought of being vulnerable, of depending on others. How would…

She started turning her head towards my direction, and I froze. What caught her attention? I tried to recall what I had done. Ugh! I did a facepalm in my mind. It was an insect; I had slapped my arm on impulse to kill the insect that bit me around my elbow. Stupid insect!

I immediately walked the remaining steps, dragging my feet like I was arriving. Thinking time was over. It was time to ask her what I had come for.

“Mama…” I say.