I could have been sitting, standing, out to sea, doing the downward facing dog, it didn't matter because Mama was dead. She was dead. Farida Khan is dead.
I'd known her my whole life. 38 years. Funny how death brings back the best of memories and the worse of memories.
She'd help learn my first letters and to write. She herself did not go very far in school. She'd seen me through nursery and most of Primary school; all good memories. She made me dresses and curled my hair and once she'd threw an old cabbage broom at me, the kind that was so old and tough, it had grown short. When it connected with my leg, most of it stuck.She cleaned me and gave me Milo to eat and made me swear not to tell Papa. It was the first thing I did when he got home. Tell Papa.
Then life happened as it so often does. I returned to my mother after years of living with Mama and Papa. With them I was Muslim and went to Madarsa and learnt Arabic and danced and went to Prince of Wales Cinema to watch Amitabh Bachan and Jaws and danced even more. I remember one school party. I wore a red all in one top with grey jeans and bright red rubber slippers bought from Uncle Tambee who sold cloth and shoes at Wales market. I had my plate and spoon and a plastic cup in a brown paper bag. All the way to my school I was conscious that I had no ass.
I got to the hospital but my sister had already left. Mama had gone to the morgue. I did not see her. I'd left her the night before at midnight at Georgetown Hospital. We'd waited for almost 3 hours to get an attendant to take her for an x ray. Then waited some more for the Doctor to talk to us. He came after I rolled my eyes and acted belligerent. He had a lisp. He told me she'd live through the night. She did, but died at around 11 o'clock the next day.
I remember telling my nephew to stop crying, that I am fine and calling Yusuf to come for me at work. It was my 6th day at the Guyana Chronicle. I was just getting into a groove. He came and I wasn't ready to go. My head stopped working.
I grew angry at my sister. Why couldn't she wait for me to come? I called her. Where are you? Going home. Did you talk to the doctor? Wanita Huburn, Farida Khan is dead! I hung up. As if that was an explanation. It was my childhood all over again. I hated my childhood. I especially hate my sisters and brother. I came to them too late in life. I am the middle child. 2 sisters a year apart, me 7 years after, and a brother and sister a year apart 8 years after me. At 38 I am still no closer to them than the day I went back home.
Farida was married for 22 years, had no children then had an affair and ended her marriage. Papa had an affair too. For much longer than Mama. She'd spent years waiting on Govo to marry her. They broke up many times, there were other men, but she waited on Govo. Finally he came through. Lasted a few months. I think it broke her.
I watched on and didn't think about marriage. Or children. They both seem like things to avoid. I'd felt abandoned before, didn't think I'd want to go through that again. My Aunt Liz had a good recipe. Have your own apartment, have your man visit. Complain if he snored. Or wrinkled the sheet. It seemed perfect.
In the months leading up to Mama's illness, I'd pray for it not to happen. I'd started 2012 almost broke and in debt. Work on my house had stalled. I thought it would get better by June. Then that cursed audit started. I looked for alternatives while the "truth" came out. Nobody tells the truth. CEOs are the worse. I worried about paying my mortgage and staying on top of my bills. There was no one to turn to.
She needed me to be there. I am not good with hospitals nor the smell of death. I did the best I could. I failed miserably.
Work became my priority; finding work. Steady work. Regrets filled my days. My nights were no better. There is nothing that makes it better. Not even a man in your bed. I thought about how alone she must have felt all these years. She'd fill her time gardening, visiting relatives, me, church and seemed to look forward to funerals. She'd call me up and say " Auntie Sattie dead" or "Ovid died" or some other person that I'd known from Long Pond. It's where I'd lived until I was 26. Seems like so long ago.
There was a time when going home from Georgetown, I couldn't wait for the mini bus to get to Bell Vue. When it got there, I knew I'd be nearing home. I would get in a bus and close my eyes and woke up at the sluice. When I go back now, it looks like all the villages there gave up. I didn't like talking about Long Pond. Didn't want to hear about who's getting married, went to 'Merica or died.
Long Pond and Wales were cruel to me.
I've live for 12 years in 'town. The people here think they "know" me. They think they made me. They think it gives them the right to comment on me, about me.
I was 18 when my Dad died. I woke up to his screams and couldn't bear it. Went back to sleep. When I woke again, he was dead. It seems my loved ones die every time I go to sleep. I've tried to keep watch over the years. But thieves still invade. Snakes come out and centipedes run around. It took a long time to find sleep. Now it is fitful.
I've picked a bone with my sister. How dare she not let me see Mama? How could you not know how insensitive it would be? How hurt I'd be? How much I'd want to see her? Sisters are supposed to know this! Dammit! But we haven't been sisters in years. Don't think we ever have been. Not any of us. How could I think that Mama's death would bring us together. And I am not ready to forgive again. Not even for Mama. At least not tonight.
Years after my Father died, I mourned his passing. I mourn him every day. Till now. Who says it gets better? You're wrong. I'd begged God to give him a space in heaven. I wasn't sure he'd accepted Jesus before his death. I traded my soul. I want to do the same for Farida. Can I trade twice?
My excuse for not seeing her as often doesn't matter now. The debts are still there, I am still broke and the job still uncertain. The life that I thought I had to fight for is still the same. Filled with regrets and no closer to an answer.
I know the feeling. When I was still living in Guyana I rarely found time to visit my Grandma. I put work, UG, bills and everything else before her; somehow thinking that she'll be there when I finally got the time. Then the opportunity came for me to leave and the time I thought I'd have wasn't mine anymore. A few short months after I moved to The Bahamas, I got that dreaded call, "Liz, your Grandma went home today." Earlier that day, I'd gone shopping and bought a pink mug, something I would have never done before, pink being my least favorite colour. That evening after getting the news I stepped outside to breathe and the sky was splashed with brilliant shades of pink. In my mind and heart I have a new appreciation for this colour because it has now come to represent the memories of one of the strongest, most inspirational women I have known.
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