My Lost Middle Name

Lately, I have caught myself thinking of Nnaa Buduruwa. Nnaa means “grandma” in Dagaare, my first tongue.

My memories of Nnaa Buduruwa are as sparse as a failed corn cob because of two reasons. It is, first of all, a consequence of that vulnerable period of childhood where the mind is infantile and the cognitive muscles lean. It is also a product of the mere passage of time. New memories are overwriting old ones; some old ones are simply being eroded for no reason other than the recklessness and contempt with which old memories are often held.

But – I remember the smell of kpali (dawadawa) in Alima’s kitchen on days she (we) had to visit Nnaa Buduruwa. I remember the banging of ladles; the friction of pestles and mortars; and the aroma of stews and soups. I am sure the five or six-year-old me would hang around Alima, following her from kitchen to compound to kitchen to bedroom to kitchen. I can’t tell if I still sang the Chi-Chi-So-So song I was so notoriously known for.

In my Micky Mouse Sweater and modified crocks, I am sure we would pass ‘Lassan Ma’s place, then Muje Ma’s place, in pursuit of a vehicle to take us to Charia, a distance of about 12 kilometers from Wa, the Upper West Regional Capital. This was one of those rare moments when it was okay to use a vehicle. Everything in Wa was always so close, so we walked everywhere – to Old Mission for Mass on Sunday mornings or to my school, Tender Care; or after school when I asked my elder brothers to take me to my other grandmother’s (not grandma grandma) place at Wapani so I could drink pito (non-alcoholic y’all, chill). Nevertheless, we would drive past our farm not far from Low Cost; then plains of lengthy country grass – all for Nnaa Buduruwa.

We are sitting in Nnaa Buduruwa’s room. Her carers are sitting outside, on benches set against the wall of Nnaa Buduruwa’s room – probably talking about the last funeral (which witch killed the deceased, which family member failed to show up etc) or the last harvest or when Alima will bring them something worth their time and attention. Even in her old age and sickness, Nnaa Buduruwa had an incandescent lithe and an unbelievable dose of good humor. I have never seen a sick person as happy. The sun floods the room through the windows but native wisdom and common sense have ensured that Nnaa Buduruwa is positioned in a part of the room where the sun will not harm her ageing eyes. She asks of her grandchildren all the time. How are they? Are they stubborn now? Children are like that, they’ll grow out of it. Oh Alima! It’s so wonderful to see you again. What did you bring me today? Oh, what zeɛre have you made for me? Yɔgevaare! Nnaa Buduruwa goes on and on and on….Every time we visit, she makes a painful effort to sit up properly – but it doesn’t always work.

And years after, I often wondered what life was for Nnaa Buduruwa before the partial stroke that rendered her bedridden for many years; what her parents were like; what games she played. I thought of the silly things she might have done as a teenager; which boys she might have loved. I often thought about the places she might have seen; the people she might have met. I often wondered whether she had dreams – about life generally and the next day in particular. I often wondered what she thought of the past and the present… before the partial stroke that rendered her bedridden for many years. Yet, of all these, I wondered about the emotions she felt when she realized that she would never walk again. I never had any answers. But I know she would have been a good, supple woman with skin the colour of kyihaa (ackee apples) and hair the freshness of yɔgevaare (pumpkin leaves).

Thinking back, I wonder what kept her going; just what was it that made her so cheerful whenever she saw Alima and me? Was it because absence makes the heart grow fonder? I doubt it, simply because everyone loved her. Without a television, a smartphone – nothing… I wonder what kept her going. Did she live on past memories of better times? Or she lived for the present moment of seeing the growth of those around her? Did she consider herself a burden to her carers? I will never know.

Nonetheless, she made sure I would remember her – cunning old woman! She named me. As the closest relative to a grandmother, she had the right to give me an indigenous name and she named me Azansuma. Azansuma literally means “All is well”. Just imagine that! Whenever I have had to meet with strife and I have to say an “All is well” to quieten my soul, I remember the name that Nnaa Buduruwa gave me – the name that fell into desuetude. Nobody called me Azansuma growing up. It never made an appearance on my official documents. And just like that…. It died even before Nnaa Buduruwa died many years later.

I have been thinking a lot more deeply about this forgotten name, the circumstances under which it was given, and the life of the person who gave me that name. Alima was expecting a girl. She prayed for a girl. She had had two sons and that was enough. She just needed a girl… and here I came, the third boy. She took me to Nnaa Buduruwa when the time was right. It was more than an obligation. She had the right to know her grandchildren. I imagine her looking at Alima’s face and asking “Alima, are you okay?” and Alima stuttering to explain what made her – not sad; but just a bit disappointed. That was when Nnaa Buduruwa made up her mind to call me Azansuma. It did not matter that I was not the girl they were all expecting, but it was still a good baby.

From her bed in which she spent her entire day thinking about life, she had it in her to lighten burdens and make life a bit more bearable. I have been thinking of her these past few days… what life really means. Whether we worry too much after all… In all of it, it’s Nnaa Buduruwa’s voice I here – sly old woman – saying “Azansuma”. She gave a gift that will never die. A name that makes life more tolerable – enjoyable even.