Homage to a Mama

Mama Clemens waddled from end to end of the village, milk jug in tow. Smiling and grunting the entire way, I could see her head scarf bobbling amongst the maize fields as she came. She tithed 1L of sweet milk daily to Pastor and Mama. Actually, Mama Clemense was the beneficiary who gave us Momma Grey, my dear cow friend. Mama Clemense’s daily milk delivery came straight from the teat of Momma Grey’s calf. No wonder it was so sweet!

She owned a small shop. Supplied sugar, flour, matches, rope to the masses. She would give me a free soda every time I passed.  

Rare for a Mama to own a business on her own, but Mama Clemense was a widow and no ordinary mama.

She knew how to be exactly who she was created to be. Now, She was 54 so had plenty of years to Become! AND she became. That mama can pull the ‘true youness’ out of anyone she meets. Surely, a gift gleaned from her many years romance with the Creator.

In her presence, I found myself grunting, widening my eyes and laughing just as much as her. In addition, I’d try out my tongue tied Swahili. She would wrinkle her nose, widen her bug eyes even more and grunt reassuringly after each word. With laughter, hand holding and sound effects we’d continue. Communication with Mama Clemense, always light and easier than most.

She made it known she was my Swahili guinnea pig and confidant.

Some mornings we’d hunt for fallen mangoes among the bush. Thrashing beside me with her duck feet, her gait made a statement. We’d always come up with a bag full of mangoes that she would parcel out to her grandson, nieces and parishioners as she returned home.

Her favorite shirt was a T she kept pristine. “If you don’t like the news, go out and make some!” it proclaimed in English. I still wonder if someone explained the meaning to her in Swahili. It was the best fit garment I’ve ever seen.

Often times, the two of us would be the only women attending the Women’s Prayer Gatherings at our church. She sat in rapture as I explained my fellowship meetings with young ladies in nearby villages. I learned about her family, shamba (farm), struggles, and commitment to the church. She promised to take me to her shamba.

She loved praying for my Dallas family! However, her face shone with the most joy when she called down the mighty name of the Lawd to deliver me to a Kenyan husband. “You fit here my daughter Ellie. Maybe God will provide a man so you will stay”, she would remind me after her passionate supplications.

Her attention to me and desire to see me was incredible. She valued each church member, each friend, even each little one the same way.

◊◊◊

It has been 1 month since I received the news, “Mama Clemense is dead. Very sorry.”

Mama Clemense did take me to her shamba. We, the village ladies, went to wail. Then, the community went to burry Our Mama.

It has been a month of gathering. All village Mamas are together in our mourning, singing, and talking about moving forward. Mostly, it has been a month of women in the village looking into themselves and each other asking, “How can we live, how can we praise like that Mama?”

With that, Mama Clemense has given us her greatest act of love, challenging us to grow into the joyful sacrifice she so easily exhibited.

An opportunity to try together to fill her duck footed gait. It always made a statement.