KALIFYA'S MOM

“She says you must get married before you leave Guinea,” Kalifa translated from his mom’s SuSu words with a teasing glint in his eyes. We grinned and probably even nodded as the thought of arguing with this woman who had outlived the 56 year life expectancy of Guinea women by decades seemed somehow irreverent. Kalifa later explained that when a couple looks happy together the common belief is they should get married right away – why wait?

Although very frail of frame, I would not have thought Kalifa’s mom to be 90.  She moved with ease and flexibility, her skin wearing minimal wrinkles, and her hearing, sight, and wits all quite sharp. About a year ago Kalifa paid for her to move from the mountain village in which he grew up to his sister’s house in Conakry so she could receive medical care.  He sends his sister $100 each month to pay for his mom’s medication.  When he sent the money directly to his mom, she spent the money on her grandkids – just what my grandma used to do! When I asked what ailments his mom suffered from, Kalifa replied, “You know, old people’s stuff.”

The trek to meet her was another window into the lives of people in Conakry. Tex was at the wheel, Kalifa riding shotgun, Don and I in the back seat. We turned off the highway and entered into what felt like an urban village.  Street vendors, small businesses intermingled with residences, hordes of people walking and in groups, chickens and goats.  The pavement gave way to rutted dirt as we continued winding through the maze of roadways.  

Kalifa had told his mom some friends from the US would be visiting and they would bring her things that he was sending along – a boombox so she could play Kalifa’s CDs, a blanket and a towel – things she needed but didn’t have access to.  He told her he wasn’t able to come this year.

So when we arrived at Kalifa’s sister’s house, having walked the last piece as our combined weight would have sunk the car in the hole ridden road, we were greeted with shrieks of glee from Kalifa’s niece. Her 14 year old energy was contagious and we joined her in hugs and laughter and jumping up and down.

She pulled us inside her two room home for another round of shrieking, laughing and jumping with Kalifa’s sister and nephew.  As Kalifya turned towards his mom tears were added to the mix. Kalifa and his sister are the two remaining siblings of the seven his mother bore. Kalifa told us that each year when he returns at least one more friend has passed.

  

We sat on comfy overstuffed sofas and chairs surrounded by painted walls adorned with an occasional photo of a family member tacked up near the ceiling. Every once in awhile Kalifa or Tex would turn to us to interpret a question or comment from the group, or to ask about our comfort: should the fabric remnant covering the window be left up to keep out the heat, or moved to allow the breeze through?

I didn’t mind that I didn’t understand much of the conversation as being able to witness the delight of this reunited family was sufficient reason to enjoy the time spent.  And it was entertaining to see Kalifa’s reaction to his mom’s comments that were so typical – comments that no one other than a mom has license to make, and though I didn’t know what the words meant, I sure knew what the looks meant!

There is something about the joy of a mother unexpectedly seeing her child after a long separation that transcends time and place and culture and there are no words to describe it – no translation needed.