"Even in the face of death, love finds a way to nourish what's left behind."

On October 26, 2005, my entire world shifted. It was the day I lost my mother-and nearly lost my grandmother in the same breath.

We had rushed to the hospital earlier that day. My mom had attempted suicide, and by the time got there. she had already been admitted. Her pain was visible- not just in her body, but deep in her spirit. She looked at my grandmother with kind of sorrow I'll never forget and softly said, "Mah."

The doctors asked us to wait in the waitting area while they tried to stabilize her. I was then called aside to make an admission payment, as the medical aid refused the claim- since it was suicide case. That moment alone was hard to swallow. It felt cold and distant. But we did what we had to do.

We were told she'd be moved to a public hospital. As we waited for the taxi outside the private facility, one of my mom's friends called us back. Something felt wrong in my stomach- a knot I couldn't ignore.

I rushed back inside, leaving my grandmother seated in the waiting area.

When I arrived at the ICU, my worst fear greeted me, my mom was covered in the White sheet ,is was the kind of white that shine which it felt like it was going to blind my eyes the way the lights in that ICU were so bright but at the same time it felt like i was locked in a small dark room.

I broke.

The strongest Waman in our family-the light of our home-was gone. The big tree that held us up had fallen.

It didn't feel like a hospital anymore- it felt like crime scene. Police officers were present. The mortuary team had come through the back door to collect her body. Suicide meant inquest. Questions. Silence. Pain.

I stood there holding clear plastic with my mother's clothing.feeling completely shattered -and yet, I knew she wouldn't survive the truth-not in the moment. So, I wiped my tears, walked back into the waiting area, and told her a lie.

"They're moving her to another hospital, "I said.

That lie, as heavy as it was, bought us time.

We travelled home, and it was only there- in the safety of familiar walls- that I told her.

What followed still echoes in my memory. She let out a scream that tore that tore through my bones. She crawled on the floor, wailed. and the passed out. It was the moment; I thought I truly lost them both.

But then I remembered an old remedy.

I ran and made sugar water- something simple, but sometimes powerful, Then I prepared a green salad and brown rice-the only food we had at the time. It was all i cold do. Somehow, it worked. My grandmother survived that night.

We carried on.

She carried her, especially when life tried to silence our pain.

She stayed strong until July 2022. That's when she rested-in peace, with honour. She had done her part-She raised me, buried her daughter .and still found the will to fight for life.

This story is not just about pain. It's about the bond between three generations of women, the strength hidden in means and small gestures, and the resilience we inherit from those who come before us.

Food was never just food in our house, It was love. It was healing. That day, sugar water brown rice wasn't just ingredients -they were hope, and not just a meal that gave my grandmother strength but Faith in me, Faith I had injected in that food.

"Even in the face of death, love finds a way to nourish what's left behind."