my maaji

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.