I had written the second part of this series a long time ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to submit it. My answer to all my questions to the higher realm was to wait, the ancestors stand up for attention. I’ve been uneasy, restless, knowing something huge was about to happen but not sure what.

Today after a very anxious week, a week of overwhelming sadness and not knowing why, the news came. My grandmother passed on today. Her name was Jummai Bagaiya. Jummai is a Hausa name for females born on a Friday. She died on a Friday. I was almost named after her because I was born on a Friday as well.

My grandmother had a mysterious past. Descended from royal lineage, she married a pharmacist who was the son of a preacher. Her father-in-law was the first Christian of the Kagoro people, also from northern Nigeria. He was tutored by English missionaries and in turn was a missionary himself to the Kagoro people. He built the very first church in Kagoro, which is still the most popular church there.

Jummai came from a more traditional spiritual path. The path of her ancestors, but she married the son of a preacher, so changes needed to be made. The past had to be buried. Buried so much so that I am still trying to dig it up. As is the tradition with my people, each side of the family has to give at the first born, at least, a name. My grandmother named me Kaliat, which translates to “people are talking”. Not unlike her, her daughter chose a man who would not have traditionally been chosen for her. There was tremendous uproar for a myriad of reasons so my mother, her husband and the first child she carried in her womb became a subject of great discussion. So, the first time she held me in her arms, the word “Kaliat”, came out. That name carries with it the burden of the ancestors who did not fulfill their duties during their time on this plane. It carries with it the close scrutiny of other. Some would say it is a curse as well as a blessing.

I came from a family of strong Christians. Growing up, I knew nothing else with the exception of Islam, which in the part of Nigeria I grew up in, the two lived side by side. Jummai was my first introduction to the power of the Mothers, the Aje. When I was about eight years old, people on my mother’s side of the family began to die rapidly and consecutively in tragic and ghastly ways. Word was that someone had put a curse on the family. Someone was using “magini” (medicine) to eliminate the family line. My mother took my siblings and me to a “boka”, (one who understands the ways of magic). I don’t remember very much except the surroundings were dark, I couldn’t see very much. I remember an elderly woman putting something in my mouth for me to ingest. My thoughts then were that it didn’t taste very good. Apparently, after everyone in the family had gone to see this woman, the deaths stopped. I believe this was my very first escape from death.

Jummai was the most calm, gentle, kind, serene woman you could ever come across. I never saw her angry, I never saw her emotions take control of her being. There was a time, when I was about five that she would baby-sit my brother and me. It is from those times I attribute my passion for the music of Bob Marley. It would play everyday when my mother dropped my brother and me off until we left in the evenings. When we started school I hardly heard about Bob again until I came to the States. I could remember every word of each song I ever listened to. That music remains one of my greatest inspirations.

I last saw my grandmother eight years ago exactly. My ex-husband and I had taken our children to see “home”. It was also the last time I was at home. My grandmother prophesied to me what would happen between my husband and I. I did not believe a word she said at the time. I couldn’t see an inch in front of my nose then, so nothing would have penetrated my spirit for my own good. One of the last things she told me was how to carry myself. She reminded me of the people I came from. She did not understand why I had to be in America. At that time I didn’t either. I just knew I had to be and that was all I could tell her. She saw that the States had beaten something out of me that made me seem less than I am. In retrospect, I know she was right. My lesson is to gain it back. She is the main person I longed to go back home to see. I wanted her to see my youngest child, who she’s never seen before, I wanted her to see what Kaliat had grown into. I wanted to share with her my lessons, the things that have happened to me, the things I’ve learned, my pain and my joys. After I cried, I knew I could still do that.

Ifa, in so many ways has blessed me with tools to communicate, signs to look for. She is here with me. The ocean no longer separates us. She is my first defense. I mourn her physical absence from this plane, but I know on the other side she can influence me so much more, I can call her name and she will be right there walking beside me. She signifies my rebirth, my own transformation. All my “unknowingness”, I understand now. I was waiting for one to go before me to intervene for me and that day has come. Just like my name, bitterness with sweet. And one day, I know I will see her again, possibly in this lifetime through the eyes of a child.

Omode ki ajuba ki ib pa. A child who pays homage never suffers the consequences

Marerefun Shango, the Spirit of Transformation.

Marerefun Oya, Mother of Nine

“As it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end.” Bob Marley

Iwa Pwele,
Iyalosha Oshunlade