Photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash
Kaka coerced her granddaughter, Samira, into her bedroom by pushing her bowl of acha away.
“Acha again?”
“It’s the healthiest breakfast,” Samira said.
“Says who?”
“Faruk.”
Kaka grabbed Samira’s arms. “Come,” she said.
Samira didn’t argue, she yearned for change and moving in with Kaka had saved her from crumbling. Her grandfather, Abba, passed away two months after Faruk died, leaving Kaka alone in a five-bedroom bungalow. Samira chucked her life into four suitcases and waved goodbye to her parents’ creeping stalking shadows. They’d lost the language of understanding their widowed daughter, ever since they found her hopping in the courtyard, weeping, and cracking her knuckles. At Kaka’s house, she could be sad without earning pain-stricken looks.
“Look at what I can do,” Kaka said. Her eyes sparkled as she guided Samira on a tour of her dresser. Kaka had replaced her cylindrical glass bottles of humra perfumes with plastic cups, ablution kettles, plastic mats, straw mats, and serving trays. All the items had rectangle stickers, with ‘Congratulations on your wedding,’ at the top and ‘Cut-cee: Brides or Grooms family,’ at the bottom.
Samira held her breath. The mirror above the dresser showed a confused 26-year-old with drying bits of acha on her late husband’s white t-shirt, and a euphoric 80-year-old woman, with tap-dancing eyes. Samira’s eyes skirted around the bedroom, sniffing for more unusual items. The bed, as always was immaculately made, as though the sheets were tattooed on the bed’s frame. Try as she might, Samira had never been able to replicate Kaka’s skills. Her mother told her that Kaka made it compulsory for all her children to arrange their beds in the morning. Samira’s mother and uncles would do their best before going to school, but, upon return they’d find signs of their mother’s delicate and perfectionist touch on their beds. Every day, until they started emptying the house for her and Abba.
“Kaka, why are all these wedding souvenirs out here?”
“Look at them,” Kaka urged.
Samira noticed that many of them carried dates older than her parents’ marriage.
Kaka encouraged Samira to analyse the items, to feel them.
Samira humoured Kaka, even as her legs cursed and her heart wailed. Her grandmother, her safe space, was becoming senile.
“All these marriages,” Kaka exclaimed. “They still exist.”
“O-kay,” Samira said. “Alhamdulillah? Good for them?”
Is there a worse heartbreak than watching a dynamic woman shrinking back to childhood? Samira bit her tongue: of course, a worse heartbreak existed. She had experienced it, and Kaka too had gone through the terror of waking up to a life without a husband you loved, not tolerated, but loved with the honesty of your reflection.
Kaka nudged Samira’s shoulders. She pleaded, “Let me do it for you.”
Samira couldn’t believe that she would be the one to inform her mother about Kaka’s dire situation. They’d feared the worst when Abba passed away. But Kaka surprised them by remaining sturdy. She’d handled widowhood better than Samira. Perhaps lengthier marriages equipped one better for death’s inevitability.
“Tell me everything about the type of man you want,” Kaka said.
Samira led Kaka to the bed and knelt beside her.
Kaka giggled. “Are you shy?”
“Kaka, do you feel okay?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve arranged wedding souvenirs from decades ago as though they’re photo frames, and now you’re asking me about my preferences?”
“I want to see you married before I die. You’re my eldest grandchild,”
Samira smiled when her soul ached to run to her mother’s former bedroom – now hers – to cry.
“What does that have to do with the wedding souvenirs?”
Kaka smiled.
“Abba and I arranged all of them.”
“That’s nice…”
It was worse than Samira feared, Kaka was imagining Abba’s presence.
“Abba and I set up all those couples. Let me set you up Samira.”
Samira bowled over, relieved.
“Get up, let me show you.”
Samira listened silently as Kaka explained.
“This cup? Hamza and Umma? You know them. Their daughter has two children. Abba saw him looking at her. He told Hamza to come home, and we interviewed him. He was so shy, but he confessed, you know Abba had that gift, I could never pretend with him…
“I spoke to Umma’s parents, and they were happy. Hamza’s job was very good, you know they moved to Madina? They’re still there.
“That kettle on top, Ibrahim and Hauwa’u, they visit me every month. Still happy. Abba and I had a 100% success rate.”
Samira didn’t argue.
“Let me try with you.”
“I was already married Kaka.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“You’re not even 30 yet.”
“I know.”
“Please consider.”
“It’s me and you Kaka, two widows.”
“Samira, I am old. I will die too.”
“Faruk was younger than you, and he’s not here is he?” Samira said. She stood up and outstretched her arms and legs. “Where should I return these relics to?…Kaka this is a mess.”
***
Kaka entered her bedroom and switched on the lights. Her perfumes were back. The absence of the wedding souvenirs hit her violently. Before her husband passed away, he swore that he would find the perfect man for Samira – as perfect and healthy as possible.
Kaka opened the top drawer on the bed side drawer. Her Abba’s face in black and white made her shudder. It was a reminder, ‘He’s a memory, he doesn’t exist anymore.’
She held the picture up.
“Samira doesn’t want to marry again,” she said. “I don’t think that shirt she wears is clean…it’s okay. You rest, I’ll keep trying.”