BITS OF ME

I never had the privilege of sharing a daily life with any of my grandpas. My paternal grandpa passed away sometime before I could even master his looks. I know he loved to whistle and that my father was his favorite of all his thirteen children, I did not want to say that but I just did. I also know that he eloped with my grandma and that he totally and unconditionally loved and respected her and I know too that he was a diligent and an exemplary carpenter. Hey, we still sit on the traditional chairs he made when my father was still a child! That must be more than four decades ago. He respected his in-laws. One time his brother in law heard him use abusive language on one of my aunt’s, his daughter, and that incident marked the end of his abusive trait. He was a funny man. His name was Michael, pronounced as Mikaael, pronounce it differently and receive a caveat. I have heard a lot of interesting stories about him and somehow, I always feel that I had known him vividly and for that, I am utterly grateful.

My maternal grandpa on the other hand, I had an experience with and even though it was in the shortest time, the little moments we shared are treasured and forever will be so. His husky, commanding voice translated some mellowness that always persuaded me to listen to him. I always thought him wise, not only by age but also by character and oration. One time, during our short, once-in-a-while visits to him, we all sat together by the window of his study room and he told his usual meaningful stories. I was fourteen at that time and a fourteen year old who loved stories, especially ones coming from the mouth of an old, wise fellow. I took note of the words he said and in between those words he said something that I have always carried with me every step of the way.

“Never force your food down anyone’s throat, not everyone is fashioned to love the good things in life, share your food with the ones willing to stomach it and only if you find it relevant to share. Remember also to be a good cook.” And he smiled, then gave us time to reflect on that.

One thing that I never understood about him though was the fact that he never used to smoke anything, even the respectable old kwesi that his father before him used to savor and just when I was ready to ask him why, I was saying ‘may God rest his soul in eternal peace’ instead. He also warned us rationally too that we should never be attracted to chips and kuku and reminded us that we were worth much more than that. The wise had spoken and the students heeded his sayings. Although along the way my appetite overpowered my memories and I slipped into a nonsensical adventure, I excuse myself and forgive my one little mistake.

One major important value I considered before starting my blog were the words of my grandfather. Funny how I picked only on the ones involving the stomach, I should have also told you about the one time he cautioned me back when I was in high school. He encouraged me to uphold my virtue of possessing a stoic personality but with vigor, warned me against being silent and hurting alone on the inside. That I should always speak out whenever something stung me on the skin because silence might feed on my bones and soul.
With the words and the memories of my grandpa, I was inspired to speak and the best way to do it, I thoughtfully decided, was through my fingers and my pen. Perhaps I would like to put my words straight and say that I am neither a teacher of life nor a life coach but just a woman who would like to share her world and to allow those willing, to look at the world through my eyes.

I had always feared rejection and betrayal. There was a time when I used to get too attached to people and the very thoughts of rejection and betrayal killed me to the bones. I got disappointed when my expectations could not be met in the ways I thought best and in my small fantasy world of fairies, I thought everyone was wired to be emotionally conscious like me. Turns out I was wrong and the time for my hard learnt lessons began knocking at my door. I got involved in the wrong kind of a relationship. Without caution, I threw myself into a ditch and got trapped. It was short and quick. I ought to have said short and sweet but too bad that was not the case. It ended up in tears, regrets and a mountain heap of betrayal.

With shattered hopes, I swam in qualms of doubt, fear and regrets but also with the will to right my wrongs and to live. With that teeny little will and with the support and guidance of the trustworthy people around me, I decided to pick myself up and the journey into my most defining moments began.

As a young single mum, there is always a strong sense of withdrawal and uncertainties that inevitably linger in one’s life, pertaining the circumstances surrounding the condition of one’s single motherhood. Sometimes it is even considered tragic and tied to immorality and absurdity. One major reason why most young women opt for abortion. It is a tough journey and more so when the father of your child is totally and irrationally unavailable. I am such woman. The challenges are vast and each and every one of us has stories to tell concerning single motherhood and being the sole provider, listener and teacher of your child. My blog tells of my story and paints a picture into the stories of other single mothers who have gone through similar challenges as mine. I speak for me and speak to and for them too and hopefully soon enough, my tussles will eventually do the trick and bear sweet fruits.