Tonight, we are afraid.
We are holding our hearts in our hands and our phones close to our ears. Anything can happen. That is what the doctors are saying. They told us to hold on tight. And that is what we are doing. Fixed position on the couch, hand on chin, phone next to me, staring into the empty space in front of me.
Why? My mother had an early heart attack.
We have never been here before, so we do not know how to react. But then again, even if we had been here before, would we really know how to react? Because what exactly qualifies as an appropriate response to such news?
She is in the hospital. The doctors are trying to get her blood pressure back to normal. That was the trigger, they said. They are doing their best—the best a public hospital in a dilapidated economy with overworked doctors and a broken health system can do. I am many miles away. My father has gone home to sleep. Past a certain age, regardless of the crisis, one must sleep. My brothers do not even know what’s happening. There is privilege in not being assigned the gender role of caregiving. Our youngest is at school, preparing for exams. He need not be disturbed. We need him to pass his exams. I am here, worrying about the other woman in the house. My mother.
I am reminded of the many nights in my childhood when I held her hair while she threw up in the toilet because of unknown stomach illnesses, when i was running from chemist to chemist, in search of the right medicine. My fragile heart could never handle the idea of my mother being sick. I had watched enough movies to know that when people were sick long enough, they eventually left their loved ones behind. Even the slightest headache got me worried. You see, my mother is a sickly human. Rarely is she not in hospital or not taking meds. We have had our fair share of hospital visits and stays. As a child, every cough she let out sent fear down my spine. Every tablet she swallowed made me hold my breath. And on many nights, I could not sleep because my mother was unwell. And when I did, I left the lights on. I needed assurance that she would stay with me.
Despite us being estranged, she is my first love. We do not hold hands or hug a lot. When we are together, we sit in silence. A silence born of understanding—that there are many things we’d rather not say. But the waters between us run deep and dangerous. The sting of abandonment and the desperate need to be understood hangs between us. I am an angry daughter, but an empathetic woman. She is the other woman in the house. I am there for her in all ways. And so tonight, I sit here in this familiar silence, thinking about her. Praying for her. The words do not come out clearly, so I am hoping that the heavens and the gods hear my heart.
Tonight, I am afraid. I am confronted with the reality that life is fleeting, and I may not be prepared for such loss. I am thinking that I am still a child and that I still need my mother. I am confronted by the bareness that is my life. I am conflicted on how to feel about many things.
Tonight, I am afraid. My mother does not know that my favourite colour is emerald green. That I struggle to bond with older women because she and I barely have a relationship. That I have surrounded myself with girlfriends to fill the safe spaces I lacked in childhood. That I hate cooking because when I think of it, I think of family, and when I think of family, I envision labour only. That I love baking because, when we baked at home, it was one of the few times she was gentle with me. That I love cats because she made sure we always had a cat at home. That the first thing I do when I wake up every morning is draw the curtains because that is how I remember every morning from my childhood—her walking into my bedroom, drawing the curtains, and opening the windows before rushing me to prepare family breakfast. You see, Nairobi people do not do these things. They do not open windows, for reasons best known to this city’s residents. Thieves. Dust. Hiding from their paramours. These people do not open windows, and it just irks me. Nairobi people also do not have breakfast at home. That my kitchen always has four cloths—a dishcloth, a hand towel, a potholder, and a surface wipe. Just like my mother’s kitchen does. That I move with authority in boardrooms because I saw her do the same when I was a child, following her around her office. That I make my own money because she said that a woman’s financial independence is the key to her freedom. I am afraid she doesn’t know how much I love her.
Tonight, I am afraid.
Tomorrow morning, I have to rush to the hospital in another city to see her—my first love. I have to call HR and explain why I cannot come to the office, and they will make me write a report explaining why. I will have to show up at the hospital, put on a brave face, and make sure the medics are providing the best care possible. I will be running from office to office, from pharmacy to ward, from home back to hospital. Because someone has to stay on top of things. Someone has to make sure both the hospital and the house are running smoothly.
I know the drill. Stay on top of things. Make sure everyone at home is fed. Make sure the house is clean. Make sure everything at the hospital is paid for. Make sure Mom is comfortable. Make sure my brothers are comfortable. Make sure the aunties are placated and prevented from flooding the hospital ward, wailing and praying. I know the drill. I have known it ever since I was a little girl. I have to be strong, yet all I want to do is break down and cry. I want to mourn the fact that I am the other woman in the house before I am one of the children in the house. My labour is required before my self. I was an adult before my time. I do not have the space to feel and process. I am only allowed to do so after paying my fair share of labour. And I am afraid to think these thoughts while my mother fights for her life in the hospital.
The doctor called.
Mother is stable. She will be okay. She will live long, he said. It was an early heart attack, common for people her age. I am thankful. To the doctor. The heavens. The universe. Every deity there is. And yet, I am still afraid.
I am at a loss. I am mourning the little girl my mother was not allowed to be. The little girl I was not allowed to be. I am afraid for my nieces, who are already preparing to accompany their mother—my sister-in-law—to visit and take care of their grandmother. I am afraid for their girlhood. And I am afraid that while I may try my best, I may not prevent this inevitable fate from reaching them.
Tonight, I am afraid.
I want to be held. I want to be. To feel. To process. To not labour. I want to lock out the world, if only for a brief moment, so that I can just be. Yet, the world seems pressed to come in. I am afraid.