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Neglect Has A Lasting Legacy

I was 5 years old when my sister and I went on a road trip with Baba, our Grandad, up North in Nigeria. It was not normal for just the two of us to go with him. There was usually my grandma too or maybe my mama. However, this time we got to go solo with him. I suspect it is because we begged and it was the holidays and my mother was busy at work with no better plans to entertain us. Whatever the case, we got to go and I remember my sister and I getting bored quite quickly (probably an hour into the 6.5 hour journey). Plus my grandad had taken to listening to boring traditional Hausa music (Mamman Shata and the like). So we sang every nursery rhyme and Disney song we knew. We sang for hours until our throats were sore. Must have driven my grandad and the driver mad but they bore with us.

When we got to the town we were staying the night in, my grandad took us straight to my ‘aunt’s’ home. I say ‘aunt’ because this is not my mother’s sister, my favourite aunty in the whole world aunty Bilky. No, this is someone who grew up with my mum and her siblings and is therefore considered a ‘sister’. I will call this aunty ‘Auntie’ henceforth for easy reference. Now, we had spent quite a few holidays with Auntie and her many daughters in the past so we knew them well enough and were quite happy to be taken to hers. One of her daughters is very close in age to my sister and the youngest was a year older than I was but we usually got on pretty well. I couldn’t tell you if there were any special circumstances at the time we visited but I think not because we would have known. My mama was always upfront if anything major was going on especially if she was going to let us visit. Anyway, out of the car we tumbled, tired and excited. It was well after lunch but not dinner time yet but we were already feeling the first pangs of hunger having had a late breakfast on the road but not stopped for lunch. We were all shown into a living room in their sprawling home and someone showed us to the ‘bedroom’. I use the term ‘bedroom’ loosely because although the large room had beds (I think it was 3 single beds), most of it was clearly a dumping ground for dirty laundry and other clutter and it looked like no one had slept in there for a long time. My grandad left whilst we checked out our lodgings.

My sister and I waited for what seemed like ages for someone to come and tell us what to do with all the mess if we were actually going to be staying in that room. We also waited in vain for someone to offer us a drink or give us a snack. Nothing happened so we eventually picked one bed and cleared it and the area around it. We lay on the bed listening to the noises of muted conversation until all we could hear was our tummies rumbling. The sun began to set and we were soon left in darkness. One of us hunted for the light switch and we resumed our waiting game. We might have dozed off or maybe just lay around in a hungry tired trance but eventually I remember saying to my sister that I needed something to drink. That spurred her into action and she led me hesitantly out of the room and we wandered down the corridors of the seemingly empty house, most of the lights off. We found a kitchen but our hunt turned up nothing to eat. We had some water and sadly found our way back to the bedroom and eventually slept on empty stomachs.

We awoke to the sound of voices outside, going about their morning chores. We could smell breakfast frying…I am not sure now what it was (because we didn’t get any) whether it was fried yam, potatoes or bean cakes (kosei) but the smell was right under our noses and we were so famished we looked at each other in hope. No one came to get us and being nice Fulani girls, we stayed put. I remember asking my sister if she thought they had forgotten we were there. ‘How is that possible?’ She replied so we waited and waited. We waited some more as all the noise died down and the house fell silent again. Had they all gone out without so much as a word to us? Were we home alone in this house we didn’t know, in a town we had maybe visited a couple of times before? We finally ventured out and explored the section of the house we were in. No one was there. We returned to the kitchen, probably assuming that they might have saved us some breakfast. We found evidence of breakfast in the dirty dishes in the sink but not a bite left for us.

At this stage, I thought I was going to die of hunger. It was getting close to 24 hours since we had breakfast on the road with Baba and there was no adult to be seen. We went back to the room and my sister rummaged desperately in the backpack we had brought with us. ‘Look’ she cried excitedly after searching for a while. She brandished a N5 note. N5 (five naira) in those days (around 1990) was actually worth something. We could certainly have breakfast on the street with that. Remember this was a town we were not very familiar with so it was with trepidation that we ventured out of Auntie’s house and into the busy street. Thankfully there was no one out to cause mischief and we were left alone. We followed the smell of kosei to a street corner nearby and found a lady frying the delicious bean cakes seated on a stool by the fire over which she was frying. We gave her the N5 and asked for kosei. ‘All of it?’ she asked and we nodded hungrily. She scooped the freshly fried kosei out into the traditional newspaper wrap, sprinkled on a generous helping of the chilli powder that comes with it and handed it to us. We walked a few metres away before we gave in to the hunger in our bellies and we tucked in. After a few mouthfuls, we felt good enough to continue walking and we ate as we walked back to the house. The portion was decent and we gobbled it all up within minutes. Finally satiated, we chucked the paper in the bin and went in to have a quick wash and get dressed.

When my grandad came for us around lunchtime, we were happy again. Still left to our own devices but happy because my sister had fed us. We looked clean and my grandad was none the wiser. Lunch was served with my grandad so of course we got fed. I remember picking at the food because I was still stuffed from our late breakfast and also because I was so disappointed my Auntie had been so mean. But we said nothing. Just very happily jumped back into the car for the 3 hour trip to Kaduna where we knew we would be treated by my aunty Nafisa like princesses. I was not disappointed!

For many years after that, I did not forget or forgive that episode. The daughters I didn’t blame so much because half of them were young like us. But the 2 older girls were certainly old enough to know that young children visiting should at the very least be given a drink and food. Auntie should certainly have known better. I made up my mind that she was no longer my auntie but only my sister knew this for the next decade or so. I found every excuse not to go back there and mostly, I didn’t.

The next time I went was unavoidable. My mama and I were on the way to Kaduna and from there were to catch a flight back to Lagos where I went to boarding school. I wasn’t really given a choice of itinerary because she wanted to say hi to her ‘sister’. I knew anyway that I would be treated well because my mama was there but the hypocrisy grated. I clenched my teeth and said not a word. The visit was ok-ish. It turned out her daughter was getting married and we had been invited but my mother neglected to mention it. I had nothing to wear for any occasion as I was on my way back to boarding school and being a teenager, it mattered to me. Bearing that in mind, the youngest daughter and her cousin/half-sister on night 2 were in the same room as I was but I was lying on the bed, my head buried in a book as I was usually found in those days. They were whispering loudly about the pre-wedding party they were going to the next night and how much fun it was going to be etc. Being close in age to them, I would have expected them to have the courtesy either to invite me or not to talk about it in front of me. They did not have the courtesy to extend an invitation to me. Party night came and they snuck out when it was time despite being chummy with me all day. What sort of a fool did they think I was? The morning after, they were giggling over events at the party but would fall silent if I walked in a room or turned in their general direction. What grated wasn’t that I didn’t go because to be honest, I wasn’t one for parties at that age and I certainly did not have anything to wear. What sucked was their meanness of spirit and being treated like a fool.

Since that visit, I have stayed well away from most of that family. Although I have forgiven them their neglect and meanness, I doubt I will ever forget. That amongst other things are major character flaws I really wish not to be associated with. I have not considered Auntie my aunty for very many years to my mama’s consternation. I have since told my mama about that episode and several other incidents not talked about in this blog. I know she was dismayed and even sad but perhaps a small part of her is hoping that me and my sister’s account of that incident is overly-dramatized as remembered by our young immature brains. Regardless, I sincerely believe that if we had been her actual nieces, she would not have treated us so carelessly when we were so young. And she would not have allowed that mean spirit to rub off on her daughters.

When I think of her, I think of two quotes:

“When someone would mistreat, misinform, misuse, misguide, mishandle, mislead… or any other “mis”… to others, they’re obviously missing something from their lives.”
― Donald L. HicksLook into the stillness

“I know it’s painful growing,
I bet the changes was painful too.
But nothing is as painful as being somewhere you don’t belong.
Obviously.”
― Touaxia Vang

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Appreciating the Small Things in Life

I don’t know if I mentioned that I got married last year in April. I must have somewhere. We have made it through the first year baptism and we have grown as a couple so much. Of course it hasn’t been smooth sailing but I would not have expected that being that we are both passionate about what we care about, both rather opinionated and both not the types to shy away from an argument. My post is not to pretend it is all paradise, a fairy tale. Perfection. It is in fact about the opposite. About how it doesn’t have to be perfect but you can be perfectly happy especially if you stop sweating the small stuff and instead start appreciating the little things that make the relationship great.

My husband from time to time gets a little insecure (particularly after a few days of me getting increasingly irate when he is not doing his boring chores) and asks if there is anything I think is good about him. I always react with a bit of disappointment because I know what I am like and when anyone does even the littlest thing that makes me smile or happy or proud, I am the first to say it, usually using the word ‘amazing’. So this here post is to tell you about the little things the husband says and does that makes me go all  mushy inside and makes me forgive him when he does the big things that make me want to cry in anger or in frustration.

I will start with a little thing he does which always sets my day up nicely. He makes me a cup of tea or if I am lucky a sandwich for work. I will admit now I am not usually a morning person so finding that he has made time for me in the morning and so saved me some time makes me go all warm first thing in the morning. It just used to be tea in my travel mug to drink on the way to work or on weekends in a nice mug by my bedside. Today, he presented me with the flask pictured above. Not only has he made me tea, he has gone out and bought a little flask to keep it warm knowing how slowly I drink tea and how it goes cold before I get to the last drop. And the flask is in a colour I love and the writing on it is paying me a compliment. What better way to start the day I ask you? I look outside right now and it is a grey rainy Monday morning but my heart and soul are smiling like the sun is up and shining Yola-style.

The other day, he went out and came home in the early hours to find me in bed. I was curled up on my side, tensed up waiting to see if his hands were cold from being outside. Imagine the relief when he placed his warm hands on the small of my back. Better yet, his hands were covered in oil and he gave me the loveliest backrub I could have asked for. I drifted back to sleep and it was the best night’s sleep I had for over a month. That’s #2 of the small things he does. He gives me impromptu massages, backrubs, foot rub, head massage when I need them the most. When I come home after a 14-hour day at work and collapse in a heap and I am so tired I cannot muster up the energy to take off my shoes or eat dinner. In the same vein, he will also fetch my dinner and a drink and make me eat it all then when I start to doze off with my plate still in my hands, he takes it all away and even carries me up to bed. How could I help but love him?

He pays me compliments all the time. I am quite a low maintenance girl if I say so myself and I have a healthy appreciation of myself. I don’t have any great hang ups and my self-image is good. I do not need compliments but I do appreciate them. Who doesn’t? Like the compliment on the pictured flask, 4 years and counting since we met and I know he thinks I am hot. Let me be honest, I do not see myself as hot. I know some people think I am pretty, my mama and sister certainly say I am beautiful and so do my closest friends but I sort of take it for granted that they see the beauty within as well as without. I know I am not ugly and even strangers have paid the odd compliment to me. Omosede Ighile even called me beautiful many years ago when no one outside my family had ever and I won’t ever forget that compliment because those days, I was a little less self-confident and it meant a great deal. Anyway, I digress. Sorry. Some days I look in the mirror and think ‘niiiiiiice’. Some pictures I think ‘wow wee’ maybe he is right I am hot but mostly I don’t remember to look at myself because honestly I do not care how I look most of the time. He does though and what I think is too skinny to be womanly, he loves. He looks at me like I would expect a guy to look at Shakira, Jennifer Lopez or Halle Berry. He gives me a smile that I know means he thinks I am sexy and you know what, it feels damn good. Because I know with many men, after that initial honeymoon phase, they stop seeing your beauty and it all becomes boring routine. Not for my hubby. He sees my beauty even when I am at my scruffiest, usually post night shifts wreck and he tells me verbally and with his eyes. Aren’t I a lucky girl?

Linked to his complements is that he is proud of me. Not only does he think I am hot, he also thinks my brains are hot. I mean, I can’t pretend not to know I have been blessed academically. It’s all on paper from the time I was like 2. So yeah, I know I am no slouch in the intellectual department. However, being a doctor and surrounded by lots of doctors who are not just intelligent but many are in the genius sphere (unlike me), I do not feel as special as I did say back in primary school when I was the school’s big brain. But when I am around my husband or when I hear him talk about me to his friends, I go back to that happy place where my mama was bursting with pride at her baby’s academic achievements. When my sister used to tell everyone who would listen how much of a Brainiac her little sister was. He is so convinced of my intellectual prowess that he would rather listen to me prattle on about religion, nature, culture, psychology and even art than consult Professor Google or people in those fields. What is best is that despite not being medical in any way, shape or form, he swears I am the best paediatrician ever. Even after I was facing my first ever exam failure (post-grad paediatric specialisation exam, 1B). I laugh but really, I am delighted that someone has so much belief in me that even when I doubt myself, he is there to shake me back into believing and therefore being great again.

Following on from there, he likes to hold hands. Small thing #5. He is so proud to be my husband. He was proudly proclaiming that even before I agreed to be his wife. My sister and I used to try to curb his enthusiasm and point out he wasn’t even my fiancé at the time but he was irrepressible. It was ‘my wife’ this and ‘my wife’ that within the first year of our courtship. Silly man! I got used to it eventually but it took a while. Now he will get upset if I fail to hold his hand or kiss him long enough in public. I know he takes it seriously so I try but I am a shy Fulani girl. Public displays of affection (PDAs) do not come naturally. Particularly when it goes beyond a quick kiss. I still get embarrassed. Not because I am not proud of him but because I have been brought up a certain way and PDAs are a no-no in Yola. The attention it draws is just a little embarrassing for this Fulani girl. But I am working on it.

Last small thing in this post because I will be late for work otherwise. He will dance with me whenever I give the slightest sign that I am in the mood for it. As soon as I start singing a song or I start nodding my head to music, he will duet with me and he will want me to get up and do a dance. Unfortunately for him, I don’t have the energy he does after work (it is physically and mentally draining being a doctor if you are not one). So I will usually bow out after one dance but he will happily dance for me whilst I cheer him on. His energy and enthusiasm, whilst in need to curbing most of the time is an amazing quality and I might not say this to him often, it is what stops it being boring round ours and we are always up to something or the other. Keeps it all fresh and turbulent and exciting. Much better than boring which I have a very low threshold for. Might explain why I am a paediatrician. It’s a lot of things but so very rarely boring.

So there you are dear husband and dear readers. I have told you all today about some of the reasons why I love my husband so much and why despite all the big faults, I love him to bits. Tell me what little things you love about your husband/partner/lover/wife/girlfriend/fiancée too. I would love to hear it!

p.s this paragon of ‘small’ virtues is called George. My Georgey boo 😀

The Original Aisha A Joda

So my name is Aisha A Joda and I am the 2nd in my family of the name. I was named after my grandmother Mammie who died 11 years and 2 months ago. She was taken too soon but at the same time, she lives on in her children, us the grandchildren and now her first great-grandchild. Of our generation, the only people that remember her clearly are my sister (the 1st grandchild), me (the 2nd), Michelle (a.k.a Aisha the 3rd), Jeff (a.k.a Ahmed the 1st of our generation), Ahmad a.k.a Baby A (the 2nd grandson Ahmad) and maybe to a degree Huwaida (a.k.a Aisha the 4th) who was only 3 when she died.

As I have 18 years of memories to share, I don’t know where to begin with Mammie’s story from my perspective. I will start from the last time I spent with her. She came to visit in London and unfortunately had a last minute conference or board meeting she had to attend so she had to leave us together for 4 or 5 days and nights. In all my life, I could not recall ever it being just me and her. For the first time, it was just the 2 of us…Aisha Joda, the first and second. I remember worrying about what to cook for her and what we would talk about and whether she would be difficult to please. I had nothing to worry about. She was as sweet as sugar and warmer than a loaf of fresh bread just taken out of the oven. All she asked from me was help to bring down a mattress so she could sit on the floor when she was watching TV and then taking it up stairs each night when we went to bed. And she wanted 2 hot water bottles because she could not get warm enough despite the fact it was only October and it was a fairly mild autumn. Being a teenager, I remember being uncharitable enough to think she was just being difficult asking for the hot water bottles but still, she was my mama’s mother and so I did as she requested every night and I even took them up into her bed as she seemed to struggle going up the stairs. Every night, she would say thank you and I would think ‘what for? I haven’t done much’. She would hop on the bus every day for some shopping and come back with some lunch because she didn’t want me to bother cooking as I was going to college (A2 year). We talked as we never had and she told me stories that made her laugh so had her shoulders would shake and she would clutch her bosom.

On the 3rd day, she came to me and said she would run out of her oral hypoglycaemics (medication for her type 2 diabetes) the next day and she didn’t want to go all the way into central London to see her private doctor for a prescription. Looking back, her unwillingness was probably because she was feeling unwell. Perhaps from her rheumatoid arthritis. Anyway, I took matters into my hands by going to my GP and telling them I was home alone with my grandmother and she needed a repeat prescription urgently. I didn’t even know but OAPs in England, even non-residents were entitled to free emergency drugs and this situation qualified her for it. Within minutes, we left the GP surgery clutching a prescription and headed straight for a pharmacy. I will never forget the look on her face as she thanked me for sorting it out for her. I protested that she didn’t have to thank me; she would have done the same for me. But she said ‘I thank you anyway. You saved my life’ and I could have sworn she had a tear in her eye. Crazy Mammie I thought although secretly I was pleased I could sort it out for her and that she was so happy over the little I did. Also secretly I was ashamed that I had grumbled in my heart for one second that she wanted hot water bottles when it was such an easy thing to do. The other 2 nights, I did her hot water bottles extra hot and took them 15 minutes earlier than bed time so that the bed was toasty warm when she made it up the stairs. I also put on the heaters for longer because I figured my mama would rather her mum was warm than save on the bill. One memory I will never forget is of her standing by the living room radiator that I had just switched off before bed and pressing the backs of her legs and hands on the warm metal to get a final warm blast before we headed upstairs.

She was to go back on the Thursday morning on a 5am flight and my mama came back the night before. I remember waking up despite loving my sleep those days and watching my mama and her mum get ready for the airport. She was wearing a black abaya that last morning I saw her and it had little crystals on the neck and sleeves with a matching scarf. I remember saying how beautiful she looked and teasing her about wanting to look good for our husband, my granddad (long story about the our husband thing). She laughed and said she wasn’t going to see him for another couple of weeks as she was going to Kaduna via Lagos and he was in Abuja for a work thing. I hugged her as she left and said safe journey. I watched them head out the door, never thinking that was the last time I would see her or hear her. My mama later said she had got Mammie special assistance so that she would be driven on those airport buggies because the walk was too long and she didn’t want Mammie to get too tired. That was the last sight she had of Mammie I am sure…Mammie on a buggy/transporter thingy, facing my mum as they drove her to fast track check in.

My love of Disney movies comes from Mammie. She had the whole collection of videos back in the day and whenever she went to the US to visit her 2nd daughter (my only aunty), she would come back with all the latest and we would go over to her every day for a video until we had watched them all then we would go back to our old favourites. She had watched them so many times that she knew every scene and every time one of her favourite scenes would come up, she would recite the lines and laugh with them. She also always had a large box of Thornton’s chocolates and would allow us to choose one every night after dinner. Of course being children, 1 was never enough so we usually stole an extra one sometime before dinner. We thought then we were clever and she wouldn’t know but I know now that she must have known but she never said. And somehow she always had another fresh box waiting when the current box was empty. Dinner in Yola was always in the formal dining room until I was 11 or 12 years old. Before that, the table was always set with proper china and silver cutlery with a fresh linen table cloth and matching napkins. My granddad sat in the centre chair by the window and she always sat opposite him. Then my sister and I would sit next to our husband and tease her for not being next to him as we were. Despite the air-conditioning and the closed door, there would inevitably be one fly in the dining room and Mammie hated flies with a passion. She would spend half of dinner flicking unsuccessfully as this sole fly that seemed to want to play. She was a very slow eater anyway and it was made much worse by her fly obsession so by the time we were done with dessert, she would be just be finishing her mains. She would take her dessert (which tended to be fruits) into the parlour (sitting room to you) and eat it as the children watched TV and she and the grownups had a good old natter.

I think she went through the menopause when I was about 4-5 years old. I remember saying to my mama and sister that she was always grumpy and I know I always wondered why she was always complaining of being hot despite it being about 20 degrees in her parlour with the A/C on. She would fan herself on and off all day and mutter about how hot it was. And sometimes she was short-tempered with the house servants and occasionally us. Oh and she had house-clothes that she would wear when she was indoors for comfort. It was obviously clean but in my young mind, I just thought it was a little unhygienic and eccentric since she had wardrobes full of beautiful clothes. Talking about her fashion sense, it was impeccable. Her hair was always neatly plaited and looking at her pictures of her in her 30s and 40s, she used to have all the latest fros and perms. She loved her shoes too and had 2 large shelves of shoes in her dressing room. My fit used to fit into her shoes and I would spend hours trying them on when she was in the kitchen supervising dinner or talking to adults. Sadly, I outgrew her size 3.5 feet when I was 11. Her makeup was always Clinique and her latest perfume Estee Lauder.

Being Fulani with our pulaku culture, public displays of affection in adults isn’t the done thing but being a little girl, I cared not one bit for that societal norm. we spent a lot of time in the holidays in my grandparents’ home and my mum would join us after work with or without my stepdad. I would happily hang with Mammie and play with my sister Charo and their dogs and tortoises and run from the geese. However, as soon as my mum arrived, that would all cease. I would run to her and hug her like I hadn’t seen her in a whole year and not 8 hours and cling to her for the next few hours until we went home. My grandmother would look on in amazement and several times she would ask me ‘aren’t you embarrassed’. Meaning wasn’t I embarrassed to show such a blatant preference for my mama over everyone else. Being precocious, I would look her straight in the eye (another thing children don’t do) and say ‘no!’ as if it should be obvious that I love my mama above anyone else. She would shake her head in amusement and give me a playful nudge as I sat as close to my mum as humanly possible.

Another memory that stands out is when my mum had travelled and we were staying with our grandparents. Mammie realised we were bored and decided to brave the heat and take us out for a drive. My sister was feeling helpful so she took the keys from her handbag to open the car and let the heat out before Mammie was ready. Of course Mammie had no idea and came out the entrance hall where her bag was and opened her bag for the keys. She didn’t find it and looked high and low for it, never thinking it would be in the car. My sister and I got bored of waiting by the car and came back to see what was keeping her. The memory of the sight still makes my sister and I roll about in laughter. It was a proper lol and lmao moment. We watched as she frantically rifled through her bag and started to shake onto the rug in frustration and we realised she was after the keys we had taken. Woops. We were beside ourselves with laughter at the frantic way she searched and at the same time, our hearts raced as we thought of how we would tell her that her search was fruitless because we had the keys. I don’t remember who told her but one of us did and she was relieved and exasperated all at once. We managed to control our laughter but for days after, every time we were alone we would mimic her search and fall about laughing. We still laugh at the comical image. You’d have to see it to understand just how funny the image was. LOL.

Mammie never forgot a birthday or anniversary. She was like a walking calendar and she not only remembered her children and grandchildren’s birthdays, she remember all her friends and their anniversaries and she had a card for every birthday and for the grandchildren she always had a present to go with it. To this day, a lot of my jewellery is from Mammie and I am still reluctant to buy anything precious because most of my precious stuff was Mammie related. I am having my Yola wedding celebrations in the coming month and the intention is to wear of Mammie’s many sets of jewellery as my way of including her in the day. Because she also loved to celebrate occasions and would have been dressed to the 9s and sprayed us all with her mint notes, squirrelled away in case an occasion necessitating money to be sprayed.

The call came on the 6th of October at around 7am. I was fast asleep as it was a Sunday, the day of lie-ins in my house. I suddenly snapped awake and looked around in confusion. I got up to go to the bathroom thinking maybe I was woken up because I needed the loo. I sat on the loo and nothing happened. As I went to get up, my mother’s mobile rang and I stood by her door to listen, curious why someone would call so early. All I heard was a stifled cry and then nothing. I felt my heart sink as I stood frozen by her door and I assumed my granddad had died. After about a minute, I pushed open her door and she looked at me with eyes brimming with tears and choked out a word ‘Mammie’. I remember holding her as we both wept and not knowing what to say or do. We must have been there for maybe 30 minutes, eyes dry and staring blindly into space. We were awoken by the phone ringing. The first of dozens of phone calls from her brothers and sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles and friends. Our doorbell was soon ringing too.

I won’t dwell too much on the aftermath of Mammie’s death but I will say I am so glad I got that last few days with her. My name is from Mammie. My looks are from Mammie. I eat slowly like Mammie. I love Disney Animation movies like Mammie. I am heat-intolerant like Mammie. I can find a bargain like Mammie. I love to laugh like Mammie. I think one of the biggest compliments that someone has paid me in the recent years was to say that I am like Mammie because I love family and I make the time to go see everyone when I get a chance to visit Nigeria (that is called Zumunci in the lingo). I hope that I can continue to carry on some of the greatness of the original Aisha Joda and I hope that if Mammie is able to hear or see me, that she is proud of the woman I have become as she was always proud of us all. In fact I know she would have been proud that I am who I am today. Aisha Joda, Mammie, my grandmother. You may be gone but you will never be forgotten!