The mother of my mother. Keeper with the memory of her history, our history. Thoughts spanning generations, over nine decades. Thoughts traveling through time in order to weave stories. With every strain, every land, minds being weaved with delicate hands. Hands that touched the lands soil, growing coffee plants and an array of vegetation and fruit. Hands that linked bodies and stories to our motherland. The land that grew the community of her birthplace, the birth of my mother and her children and of those that knew her for her powerful tall stature and the mind with a heart that expanded and cared for an entire community.
The time spent in our birth land consisted of early mornings filled with warmth and laughter. My early childhood watching ayeeyo sharing two of her favorite passions, building a community and storytelling. These mornings were spent watching her roast fresh qawhe, coffee beans with the hull. The door to her house always open to anyone in need of coffee and a conversation.
She kept these passions after migrating to a land she never imagined traveling to. In the time of urgency and in need of safety, it all became a reality. A reality she didn’t let hold her back. The 21 years on this foreign land were spent also building a community and storytelling. An open door that welcomed many to a fresh cup of coffee or tea and a deep conversation. A conversation with the woman that was the keeper with the memory of her history, our history.
إِنَّا لِلّهِ وَإِنَّـا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعونَ
by Dhool Hassan