And When I’m Gone, Just Carry On — Don’t Mourn, Rejoice!
Even though she passed on, I think this is what she would have told all of us
You wouldn’t believe how she called me.
I also didn’t believe it until I learned a wee bit of my mother tongue. And I had several nicknames all springing from my native language.
The first one was obvious. Since my mother cooks — direct translation — at Chiga, one of the centres in Kisumu, it is practically my home. So she’d call me:
Jachiga.
There’s a way she said it.
Words carry a different kind of weight when uttered by different people. I felt the weight of how she said it.
I loved it.
I have never understood why ladies are entranced by luo men. I guess I never will. But I now understand it in part — it’s what we call those who are dear to us.
With a smile, my grandmother would call me jachiga and I couldn’t help but smile.
I had to learn dholuo.
If not speak it, then hear and understand it.
I wasn’t raised with the language. My other siblings were blessed in this regard. So she would always laugh when I uttered my tattered and forced dholuo.
But that’s not the best name she had given me.
She called me after the one person she loved throughout her life.
Have you ever loved someone so much, you’d give an arm for?
The other name was:
Nyakwara
Why?
When I was born, there was a lot of debate about which name I’d be christened. My father wanted me to be called Emmanuel.
Well, that didn’t happen.
My mother was persistent.
It had to be Innocent. I think I get that quality from her. Persistence.
So my first name was Innocent. The other name was given to me based on the time I was born. Omondi.
I was born in the morning.
The other name was from my family name — Ouko.
The final name was from my grandfather, from my mother’s side. Peter. Yes, Peter is my other name.
But when a real luo calls it, it’s Petro. My grandfather, the husband of my grandmother was called Peter. Thus, when she saw me, she saw her husband. And she would call me:
Nyakwara, Petro.
Again, it’s how she’d say it.
It warmed me to know she rejoiced that even though she had lost her spouse, I reminded her of him. Love can do that to someone. Celine Dion was right — the heart will go on.
When ‘her husband’ AKA me visited her, she would be on a mission.
Let me be clear and honest. I have never, never been fed as much as I usually am when I go back home. Never! It’s like she wanted to fatten me overnight.
The real husband, when he was alive, must have been one lucky man.
But my love for her cannot compare to what my mother would do to help her. My mother would literally give an arm for her. She would make regular trips back home just to ensure Dani was okay.
Forgive my use of the word. I’m not comfortable calling her grandma. I have always known her as Dani.
We all did.
My uncle used to say he loved her but he has never outgrown the chill her voice brought down his spine.
He has children and even lectures in one of the country’s universities, but that voice, from afar, would still make him shudder. Regardless, he would also make trips back home.
Why? To beat story — again, directly translated.
My mother, on the other hand, never spoke of such a fear. She just loved going back home. She insisted on the relevance of it.
She became so comfortable when she got there — you could see it on her shoulders. Her face would relax and her eyes would smile when she saw Dani.
Back then, as the only health worker in her family, she was particularly concerned when Dani got sick. She’d send medicine and money whenever she could. If not personally, then had it delivered to one of my aunts — Mama Win, another strong, great lady.
My mother would spend so much to restore her health, and later in life, we all did. My brother, after becoming a doctor, was just as invested in ensuring she was okay healthwise and otherwise.
Later, after I started practicing, I also had to make my regular contributions, especially during these last couple of months.
I did it so regularly, knowing she would break back into her better state, but I never knew that this month would be her last.
These last few months, my mother decided to travel back home and stay with her. She insisted on it so much, unlike the previous times. So I promised her that once I got employed, I would make sure she visited Dani. It had been a long time since she went back home.
As soon as I secured a job, we brought back the topic. She started planning. I had a feeling she would stay for a while.
I didn’t mind. She loved staying back home.
So yes, she would literally give an arm, a tooth, and a kidney for Dani.
In particular, she would give a leg. The reason is Dani tripped and hurt her leg. We had no idea how bad it was until Mom went back home. She was now confined inside her house.
No walking.
And Dani could walk. I mean waaaalk!
Every Sunday, without failure, she would walk to church and back despite almost clocking 100 years.
This was kilometers away on a rough, uneven terrain. She was hella strong.
I used to hear tales of how she would plow her land when she was younger. It was not ladies who were telling me this story. It was men. Strong men. They talked of her strength as if she tapped it from thin air.
If I have learned the art of strength, it’s from the ladies whom I have grown up surrounded with. I guess they also learned it from Dani.
But now, because of her leg and her back, she was weak.
And you will destroy anyone who would try to harm her
So my mother had to stay.
Distance has a way of destroying.
If you love someone so much, distance can strengthen the relationship. It can also destroy it. Mom took no chances. She destroyed the distance between them.
She stayed with her, to nurse her back to vitality.
I can picture the household every night after they have had supper.
My mother has almost all the features of my grandmother. She’s a great storyteller but she admits that Dani was the better one.
Her face matched the intensity of the story. And the gestures? No amount of training could attain the degree to which her facial expressions conveyed the emotion of the stories.
I can even see it as I write this.
So when she told me, a few days ago, that she was in uncomfortable pain, I could hear it in her voice and picture the intensity of her face when she said it. I didn’t know it would be the last time I heard her speak.
She was happy to listen to ‘her husband’ one last time.
She even asked when I’d soon be visiting her. I had actually planned to make a visit during one of my leave days, but after I got transferred from one unit of the hospital to another, my plans were shattered.
It felt good hearing her voice over the phone, that night, as I walked back home from work. Despite her health status, it was still as strong as ever.
Every two weeks, I had to send something back home for her sake and for the sake of my mother, who wanted only the best for her.
We really have many problems but when you become sick, it turns into a single one. In the past, she bounced back. But this time round, she didn’t. We never saw it coming.
The evening when I saw the message, I couldn’t write.
I write daily, but that night was tough.
I wrote something small, out of habit, but my mind was elsewhere.
I couldn’t cook.
The plan was to pass by Maasai’s grocery stop but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t cook that night.
Flashes of her face made me brim back tears.
I started to imagine how my mother felt. How she was holding up. She was there when it happened. The one who’d give everything for Dani.
My sister says how mom couldn’t pick up her phone calls. But she texted and received replies.
I was dying inside.
The same sister was to have her birthday the following day. Now it was filled with deep sorrow.
Blow after blow. Hit after hit. Sorrow after more sorrow.
Don’t leave
Unlike most people these days, Dani would never chase a visitor away.
She welcomed anyone and everyone. But if she didn’t like your antics, she’d say it.
Unfiltered.
And boy would it sink deep.
I feel this is one of the reasons my uncle revered her, the one who still shuddered when he heard her voice. It’s also why most visitors respected that she welcomed them into her house.
Once inside, you’d beat story — I repeat, directly translated — so much that when you leave, you’d feel re-energized.
Rejuvenated.
Why? Some of the people who passed by her place were travelers and wanted a place to rest for a while before continuing on their journey.
Imagine that — would you ever do such a thing? A stranger who happens to pass by your home, asking for a cup of water?
Not our grandmother. She would never chase visitors.
Her voice had enough authority to bring out the authentic self from anyone who crossed her compound. I think she knew it.
With the same voice, she’d urge those she knew to stay.
It was the same story whenever we went home over the holidays. Basically, what she would say is –
Don’t leave.
Not yet.
But in dholuo.
And somehow, she’d convince you. Unless you had something extremely dire that could not be postponed. She’d then send you off with well-cooked fish.
I have to mention the fish.
I don’t take fish from any other place or prepared by any other person except my mother and Dani. After sampling fish from other places and people, she still tops.
Now she couldn't cook for herself. She depended on others. At times, my mother’s cooking.
But on this day, when they had spent the whole day a the hospital, nobody was prepared for her passing. They had just arrived back home and were likely to have been preparing for the evening meal.
It was almost as if her body was waiting to go back to the place she had known all her life to have her final rest.
And just when she was seated in her usual place, by the corner, she left us.
Silently.
Peacefully.
She was comfortable talking about death
She was so, so comfortable talking about death, reminding us that she would soon be going. But we were just as persistent, telling her she was still young.
I told you — persistence.
To which she would laugh, but continue persisting all the same.
This quality runs in the family. I think we got it from her.
I also didn’t know I would be as comfortable talking about death as I am now. You see, my theory of evolution talks about death as a motivator for living. We all want to avoid death.
We were similar in that sense — we were comfortable talking about death. But while she was okay with it, neither of us was.
I also recall that I got a signature look from her. A canine that sticks out. My sister likes to say I inherited Dani’s tooth.
I promised myself never to align my teeth because of her. I’d live with my crooked smile if it meant it had come from her.
As I write this, I’m holding my tears back.
It’s a struggle. It comes in strong waves.
But as one of the strongest ladies I have ever known, I feel this is what would would say to each one of us affected by her passing:
And when I’m gone, just carry on, don’t mourn
Rejoice every time you hear the sound of my voice
Just know that I’m lookin’ down on you smilin’
And I didn’t feel a thing
So, baby, don’t feel no pain, just smile back
The funny thing is this is what my mother texted me when I reached out to her. Another tough cookie.
As we mourn, I hope to hear more stories about her, so I can rejoice every time I remember have voice, and picture her intense and honest face, with that smile and voice, every time she calls me:
Nyakwara.
