Hug Thief

I suspected that this would be my last opportunity to hold her close to me. The scene was less than ideal. She needed to relieve herself. Robbed of her youthful agility by a stroke ten years prior, and further incapacitated by deep grief from losing all her younger siblings, she was unable to help herself up, let alone walk to a latrine. I had learnt to lift her to her feet in a way that does not hurt her tender areas. I always dreaded the idea of other people performing this task on her. I always felt that others lacked the deep empathy I felt for her. She was my mother after all. She gave birth to my mother but was my mother herself. She was always "ma" and never "gogo."

On this day, she seemed helpless. Succumbing to death's inescapable call was almost certain. A grey pall had fallen over her usually butter-yellow skin, reflecting the curtains of the deep hollows she would soon descend to, on the back of that age-old enemy, death. 

As I lifted her, my mind escaped to a long-forgotten past. I was a child, perhaps four years old. I was a ton of bricks. You see, I have always been plump and heavy. Yet, I would insist on being carried everywhere we went. If she did not carry me, I would plant my heavy frame onto the ground and refuse to move. As I thought of this, I imagined how frustrated she would get. I don't think I have the patience to deal with a younger me. She would always try to tenderly reason with me. At times, she would just carry me on her back. A domestic servant, no doubt she would have been exhausted from picking up after her master's children, as it was. Selfish little me wanted to be on her body. Once on her back, I would feel the security that could only have come from her heartbeat.

As I placed her down, she failed to hold herself up, as she had learned to over the past 10 years of living with stroke. It gave me further opportunity to hold her to my bosom. I did not mind that she was doing private business. We had been through much, together. She had washed me as a child. I washed her as a grown-up. There were no secrets between us, no formalities, and few boundaries. 

At last, she was done. 

I remember thinking, “Why don't you just take a normal hug, like a normal person?” 

I was quickly reminded that we are not normal people, by standard definition.

I learned to use hugs as a sign of affection long past the age of ten. Even then, I didn't understand the meaning of a hug until I was well into my teens.

I did not know how to ask her for a hug, even as I was desperate to hold on to her, in anticipation of the approaching end of her life. 

Of course, in hindsight, I wish I had asked for that hug. Still, I am glad that I stole it at that very moment.

The next time I saw her, she was lifeless.

This was penned in 2016 after my grandmother, Martha Francina died. I never imagined a world without her. 

Gugu Statu