Abeng Tribute: A Grandmother’s Love

Abeng Tribute To A Grandmother’s Love

by K.Omodele@TheAbeng

My grandparents’ love was pure, over half-century cured. I don’t mean theirs was the definition of love because dictionaries only spurt out academic verbiage. And my Grandparents’ love wasn’t that rhetorical, I-love-you kind of love; words lightly strung together to be routinely regurgitated on some exam day: subject, verb, object; sometimes dangling pacifiers, sometimes carefully placed manipulators, sometimes careless whispers. My Grandparents’ love was none of those.

My grandparents’ love lasted a lifetime- I witnessed this myself. They really and truly were best friends for life. Ever heard  about that love-you-til-we-old-and-gray love? They had that in real life.

Sure, they sucked teeth and threw words at each other from time to time, but they were forever doting on one another. He suffered from diabetes and she was riddled with arthritis. And so, every night they had this love ritual:

Since she could see the cc marks on the syringe better than he, she’d draw his dosage of insulin for him then pass him the needle. Then, she’d drip eye drops to treat his glaucoma and gently dab the excess that leaked out his eyes. Next, he’d break out the rubbing alcohol and ICY HOT and massage all her joints – knuckles, elbows, knees, ankles – for bout a whole hour while they watched TV. Every night they loved each other up this way. I saw it with my own eyes.

Granny’s love is a living, being, doing thing, natural like breathing. Like, minding* a baby grandson so his mom could properly educate herself. And like, showing him how to use a rolling pin when making roti; how to grind real scorching scotch-bonnet and blazing bird peppers to make a loving batch of fire-pepper sauce. And how to dry pepper seeds by putting them out to sun; then once dried, she told me where and how to plant them (oh sorry, “sow” them) in soil.

Granny’s love never wavered. Over decades, across borders, from Berbice to NY, raising children and grandchildren, through good and tough times, it never waned.

Even when mischief was tickling her bones.

“Grandma, I’m dapper like my grandfather, right?”

“Nah Boy. When that man used to walk down The Strand, every girl and they mother stop and stare.” Smiling, eyes closed, face beaming at the recaptured image. “You handsome though, close.”

Growing up, I loathed bringing strain to Granny’s eyes. Couldn’t begin to account the amount of wrinkles I etched in her face.

– “Ow Boy. How you could do something like THAT?”

– “You hard ears or what?”

– “You don’t have no shame? You mustn’t treat woman like that. You wouldn’t want nobody treating your sister, or mother, or daughter so.”
“But Granny, you don’t see how she-“
“Go and tell her you sorry! You just like your father.”

– “I was washing your pants and, here, what is THIS?!” As if she didn’t already know the answer. “How much for this?”
“Ten dollars, Granny.”
“For this lil bit a thing? You schupid or what?” Shaking her head.

I felt smaller than that bag of weed.

My grandfather transitioned twenty-three years ago and all them years my Grandmother laughed, and cried, and chastised, and ached, and cussed Donald Trump (long before he began popping up daily on CNN); and tantalized, and cooked, and gardened; and loved me, and love us all, our whole tribe, until she was ninety-four, going on ninety-five. And in all them years, she lived her life with fullness. But I always got the feeling she was waiting to see my Grandfather again.

On July 4th, she told my aunt she was tired.

“You hear that band playing?”

“What band, Mommy??” My aunt asked.

“You don’t hear it?”

Then my Granny ascended to the ancestors. Left me in a total lunar eclipse – that’s when your moon gone and you’re left with a black and empty night.

But I know my Grandfather’s grinning now. I hope he stocked up plenty of rubbing alcohol and ICY HOT.

They’re never really Gone!

Never Forgotten!

Jah Bless.