Remembering You, Always.

Relying on the memory can sometimes be a futile thing. It is often incorrect, biased, tinted with rose; rarely accurate. It is always coated with emotion or perception. It rarely is what it is. Photos aren’t like that. They are what they are. You can interpret them however you want, but what you’re given is what you get.

I think about this when I look at this picture of my grandma and I. The only one I have of the two of us before she died in 2003. We are at the top of my uncle’s driveway, side by side and smiling. 

I think about how long I spent with my grandma throughout my entire life. My grandma lived in Nigeria for most of hers, and I’ve lived in London for most of mine. But for 5 weeks across 2001-2003, we got to spend time with each other in Atlanta, Georgia. My uncle, her last born son, brought her to the States for his wedding and eventually to live with him long term while she was being treated for an illness. 

Ashamedly, I don’t have many memories of my grandma over those weeks. But what I do remember vividly is my fondness of her. The love I had for her. The significance of being around the woman who birthed my Dad. What I do remember most is her voice. The times where we were across oceans and connected merely by a phone line and calling card. I remember the texture of it. The husk. Her beaming. Her love. I remember feeling like her favourite. I remember her prayers. I remember feeling safe. 

That is why I’m grateful for this picture of us. Grateful for my uncle feeling compelled to take it. I do not remember this day, but now I’m not sure that matters. Because what is vivid is her smile and mine, an indication of our affection for one another. And no matter who sees the picture, that fact will always remain. It will always be what it is. 

A young Tania posing with her grandmother in Atlanta. All smiles.