last week i found out maaji has been diagnosed with uterine cancer.
no, the irony of the situation has not escaped me. i found out one week to the day i experienced the ghost pains in my own body.
but
she's my maaji. it only makes sense. we are connected, despite the
distance between us. first there were continents. then states. and
still, she has been my guiding light, my guardian angel, my hero
throughout my life. she has been a powerful, inspiring source of
strength for me since i was six years old.
maaji was a
tomboy as a child. or as she says, a "fighter-cock." she's always been
built tough, with muscular arms she used to climb trees and beat up
anyone who bullied her siblings. she wore pants in the '40s. she didn't -
and still doesn't - take no crap from no one. she is the matriarch of
our family.
people tell me i have maaji's feet. strong. wide. grounded in the earth.
maaji
was married at 16. there have been whispers that bapaji used to beat
her. he probably still does. they don't sleep in the same bed.
every
time i talk to maaji, she reminds me of two things. one, to practice my
religion. allah is the most beneficient, the most merciful. two, that i
can come to her for anything in life. that i am the diamond of the
family. the eldest grandchild. the eldest daughter. the hope and pride
of all the women who came before me.
growing up, she
often gave me advice. "i want you to get a good education," she would
say. "i don't want you to be like me. or your mother. i don't want you
to be dependent on anyone. you must study well, earn your own money, and
take care of yourself. you must be a strong woman, with no need to
depend on a man."
maaji was diagnosed with breast
cancer when i was 15. she had a mastectomy when i was 16. that summer,
we bought her special bras and a prosthesis from the u.s. she didn't
have access to one in nairobi. my mother hoped her INS application would
come through someday so she would have access to many things she
couldn't have in kenya.
the last real conversation i
had with maaji was one year ago, while she prepared dinner in her
kitchen in houston. i was 26. she told me about how sad she is, how she
never imagined she would have to grow old in this lonely country. how
life was harder in nairobi, but it was better, because she knew her
neighbors. they looked after her. she didn't have many things, and there
were potholes and riots in the streets. but at least she wasn't lonely.
during
that last conversation, i told her that i am different from her and my
mother. that i have always been different, in many ways. i am
independent. i have a college degree. i am queer.
the distance between us grew wider than the biggest oceans.
when
she finally spoke, maaji said, "i know what you want. i can't give it
to you." i looked at her with tears streaming down my face. she
continued, "your mother has had a hard life. you're making it harder for
her. i cannot support you." she wouldn't meet my eyes.
we haven't spoken since.
and now she has cancer. she is growing older in this lonely country.
and so am i.
