![]() I’ve tried to show the same level of generosity as often as I can. She was so generous, never coveted anything for herself and sometimes went without, passing on her things to others to use. When I started nursery school at three years old, it was she who would get me ready in the morning, and then slip some shillings into my palm to buy snacks. She would hand over as many as I could eat, never telling me off for making a mess or for eating too much. My grandmother Fatima or mamma always cooked extra food knowing someone would turn up to eat with us and often sent food out to various homes in the neighbourhood.Īs a child, I sat at her feet in the kitchen, holding a plate and waiting for hot chapatis liberally spread with the best ghee and sprinkled with sugar. The house was open to anyone who needed food, a shoulder to cry on or some financial help. My grandparents were unfailingly generous, with their time, their money and their food. When he was taking naps in the afternoon, I would snuggle up against him, lulled to sleep by his snoring or the rise and fall of his tummy. He would pick me up from school, take me to his office or the seaside every Friday to buy snacks and eat ice-cream, share his food with me, and take me on outings to the cinema or the Eid funfair. Everyone seemed in awe of him, even my mum and uncle, but I adored him and never once felt scared. My grandfather was the patriarch of the house, respectfully addressed as baba or mzee (meaning elder or male head of the household in Swahili). Subconsciously, the values they passed onto my young self are what shaped me into the person I am today. My grandparents were the biggest influence in my life. My grandparents are no longer around, but years after their deaths, I’m unable to remember either of them without tears springing to my eyes. For the first five years of my life, I lived with my grandparents, Noorali and Fatima Bhaijee while my father worked in remote parts of Kenya. ![]() This precious memory and countless others are the bedrock on which my childhood exists and has made me into the type of person I am today. I bite into it quickly and savour the sweet, creamy flesh. He cuts off a piece and hands it to me, smiling. My grandfather carefully slices open the thorny fruit as I wait eagerly. Mixing in with the pungent smell of the fruit is the scent of oudh and talcum powder from my grandmother as she sits on a sofa. The sea breeze brings pleasant relief as the smell of durian wafts around the living room. It’s a warm afternoon in Mombasa, Kenya in the eighties. ![]()
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