The Woman I Admire Most
by Aminata Cisse
She wipes the sweat from her brow as she paces back and forth
from the ancient armoire. Her eyes remain alert as they scrutinize
every aspect of the water-stained walls of her bedroom. She
adjusts everything in her way, uttering complaints in a tone
that no language barrier can disguise. The heat intensifies
her state of unrest. The lack of rain wears on her being; she
is worried about the harvest.
Kuumbaa Tiam, my paternal grandmother,
has lived for approximately 65 years. Her skin, like the
reddish brown earth outside has been darkened by the sun.
Standing over 6 feet, she doesn’t
fit the familiar model of the petite grandmother. Her intelligent
eyes simultaneously reflect pain and strength. She has borne
ten children and has outlived three. As the matriarch and senior
wife, she is given the respect of her station.
The livelihood of Diossong’s
inhabitants rests in its crops and its religion. It is late
summer and the once-emerald fields have turned a brittle
brown. The Saharan winds, blowing from the north, bring piles
of stifling sand with them in an effort to extinguish all
life. As the fields wither around her, my grandmother is
left with nothing more than her daily prayers. No one internalizes
the suffering of the land more than she.
I stand in awe of her. Born in a place
and time when women are relegated to a lower status, she has
disavowed the passivity fated for women of her culture and
religion. She is pious, but hasn’t compromised her
God-given nature to be strong-willed and outspoken. For over
45 years, she has endured my grandfathers philandering (albeit
legal). He has married and divorced three of the five wives
he has taken, in addition to her, over the years. She has stood
as the pillar of financial support for the family, going into
cow herding when my grandfather couldn’t provide for
her and their children.
She has no education: she can’t read and write. I hear
her thoughts through the inept translation of a cousin, speaking
fledgling English, but where her words fall short her demeanor
comes through clearly. She has never been and never will be
cowed. She coddles her grandchildren and laughs with her daughters-in-law
as they prepare the evening meal. When she has to, her tongue
cuts deeply; her hands dismiss and nullify speech. Outside,
nature fights her but she doesn’t bend. She prays for
rain.
She has been a daughter, a mother, a sister, a wife, now a
grandmother, yet she has always remained-defiant, bombastic-just
like the red earth. My grandmother has lived her life with
few material resources or comforts but in her presence one
can see she has mined the deepest areas of human strength and
dignity. #
