There’s a practice in my culture where you’re not supposed to eat when a grandparent (and perhaps any close relative) dies. I think the reasoning is that being overcome by grief makes you lose your appetite.
When I was a kid I used to think it was symbolic of the fact that the grandparent was no longer around to care/provide for the grandchild.

My great-aunt passed away this morning, in the same hospital my grandmother (her sister) died almost three decades ago.
We called her Aunty Yaa, and she was the last of my grandmother’s siblings alive, a generation has passed on.
My siblings and I, we sort of owe our existence to her – she introduced my parents (before they’d be parents) and played matchmaker, but I don’t hold that against her.
She lived a long, long fulfilling life and always treated me lovingly; I lived with her and my great-uncle Dan briefly when my parents’ marriage ended.
They’d recall stories of their travels and she’d talk about my grandmother, whom I never really knew, and for a while I felt like a child again.

I didn’t get to see her much after that brief stay, my great-uncle Dan passed away a few years later, that was about the last time I saw her.
For my mom, it’s little like she’s lost her mother all over again, and that’s hard to take.
On Sunday she called home and my aunt B. held the phone up to Aunty Yaa so she could hear her breath, and I could tell she was comforted.
I’m sad that she’s gone, that I’ll never see her again, she was the only ‘grandmother’ I had.
It’s a kind of dull grief that surrounds and touches everything around me; I haven’t felt this kind of sorrow in a while.
If there’s life after death, then she’s in a better place, happy and reunited with her husband, her siblings, her mother, her friends… all together again. And that is comforting.

So there’ll be no talk of food today; instead I’ll leave you with this:
Sinead O’Connor singing ‘Lay Your Head Down’….

I’ve heard a lot of sad news lately; of people passing away… loved ones, people I’ve known and strangers I wish I’d known.
Last month, my uncle N. passed away after several years of illness.
It was hard on my mom; he was her first cousin, but older and more like an uncle whom she adored dearly.
I didn’t know my uncle N. very well; I only met him a few times but I remember him fondly.
My uncle loved tradition; he was an oral historian who told incredible stories of ancestors I wouldn’t have known otherwise.
His narratives were always riveting with mythical elements.
I loved the stories because it was a connection to exploring my lineage.

I wore black the day after we got the news.
It’s tradition.
It was a sunny spring day, and all around me were nature’s colours; greens and pinks, and whites and blues…
But I wore black… in reverence to my uncle… because it’s tradition.

Outfit Details: Dress – Benetton | Boots – Feet First | Sunglasses – Joe Fresh

I’ve been off sick from work for the past two days.
I’ve been spending my time in bed, with a cough and general malaise.
Being sick sucks, but the good thing is; I’m all caught up on my daytime soaps.
On the extra sad news front, I think my mom told me yesterday that my cousin Sam had passed away.
I didn’t know my cousin Sam very well, but we shared a unique kinship.
I had a feeling we both felt we didn’t belong with these people who were supposed to be family.

The Saint Germain l’Auxerrois church was the church of the Louvre, back when the Louvre was a royal palace.
The ‘Hautes Herbes’ sculpture is in front of the church, and I’m drawn to it.

My friend Aisha died a month to my ninth birthday.

Aisha was my friend, neighbour and granddaughter of our landlord, Paa Amadu.
She was one of those kids who no one really paid attention to.
Her mother wasn’t in the picture and her dad was young and still in school.
Her dad’s nickname was ‘young man’, he was funny, outgoing and he was very much liked by everyone.
His daughter on the other hand was a bit like me; shy, quiet, moody and a little weird.

Sometimes she’d just follow me around and we didn’t even have to speak.
She was younger and looked small for her seven and the half years.

What I remember most about Aisha is her laughter; she had a loud shrill laugh that sounded like a cry.

Aisha was also devoted friend.

She’d be there when I got home from school and stay on most days after we’ve had dinner and watched a movie, and then my mom would make her go home.

I wasn’t always a good friend to Aisha, I was mean to her sometimes.
I’d ditch her to go play with the older kids, occasionally I’d ask her to leave me alone or intentionally pick a fight with her just so I can get in with the older kids.
My dad saw me do this once; he marched up to me and said;

“Do you know how lucky you are to have someone who adores you? Now, go upstairs and play with your friend!”

One sad day in May, Aisha suddenly fell sick, she died while being rushed to the hospital.
When I got home from school, my mom told me with succinct indifference that Aisha had died.
I could never understand to this day why she was so unaffected by it, and we’ve never spoken of her since then.
My dad was angry, he said she had died from an easily preventable disease.

He called it a senseless death!
I barely slept that night; I stayed up trying to make sense of it all.

The next day I got back from school just in time to see Aisha’s coffin procession make its way from the mosque.

It passed right in front on our house, I stood on our veranda and watched.

That same veranda we had played on many times, we used to do cartwheels on that veranda… Aisha and I.
Aisha could do twenty-one cartwheels from one end to the other, and I twenty.
In Aisha, I’ve learned not to take people for granted.

Good-by to the life I used to live,
And the world I used to know;
And kiss the hills for me, just once;
Now I am ready to go!