My Grandmother- My grief.

November 27th, 2023, I wiped my grandmother's face with a warm towel- as she coughed her last breath up. She'd been in a coma for about two days- but I was sure she was coming back. She didn't come back in the ways I was hoping she would- but she also never left, in the ways that I didn't know that I needed. This is my father's mother. Cecile Mukarumongi. She is here, in my thoughts, decisions, and prayers, in my thick hair, in the rolls in my neck, in my thick lips, and of course in my Snapchat memories.

This piece will be a little bit all over the place, maybe hard to read- hard to follow,just like grief. I had the privilege ( I now know that it was a privilege) to grow up living with my grandmother. She was a lot of things- she was a gorgeous dark-skinned woman, that loved her red. Her red scarves, red gitenge, red dress- if it were up to her, everything she owned would have been red. She was beautiful and she loved beautiful things and beautiful people. She made sure she told you about your hair, your shoes, your smile, your fingers and toes. She was observant- she missed nothing.

She had a unique sense of humor, mostly mixed with snarkiness. Like most Rwandese, it was more natural for her to smile at you, but have something to say about you when you left- but while you were in her presence, the only thing she made sure you felt, was her warmth. She deeply believed in Mary, the mother of Jesus. She was a devoted catholic who often called Jesus " Akana Yezu"( little Jesus) which I grew fond of, it was almost like she was sure Jesus would fulfill the desires of her heart- because she was Mother and he was Son. She also loved our traditional music and was always in awe of "amaraba" those who could dance to it. Her eyes always lit up whenever I would decide to dance in our living room- for us. She would smile and say "nuko sha" and then follow up with all the ways that I am beautiful because I looked like her. I believed her. I believed her.

My grandmother was a lot of things- some days were difficult. She lost the love of her life- while pregnant and right when they were just starting to build their lives with three young children. Being Tutsi in Rwanda between the late 1950s to 1994, was to be a walking target- your existence was also your death sentence. My family was one of thousands who were deeply affected by the ongoing torture and killings of Tutsis in Rwanda.

She lost two of her stunning daughters eventually and also had to care for sons who dealt with mental health issues and alcoholism as a result of the turmoil of our history. My grandmother carried the kind of grief that at times strangled her joy- strangled her capacity to see us- us that were still there- us that were here because of her and for her, it often suffocated her. Her grief showed up in her anxiety that crippled our capacity to trust anyone around us, in the ways she demanded attention that I somehow couldn't fully give her. It showed up in the ways her prayers were mostly lamentations, and in the ways she was afraid to be alone. I now understand what grief does to us, the way it demands to be felt, and when we do not have the space and tools that we need, it spreads in us like cancer- it becomes cancer.

My grandmother and I had a complicated relationship. I felt like I saw her in a lot of ways and understood her but I often fell short when it came to putting my own needs aside. Especially as a teenager. There were days when I wanted her to oil my scalp, brush my hair, and tell me about her life- without me asking. I wanted her to ask me about the boys she knew I was seeing ( that woman knew a lot), I wanted her to somehow pause her worries, and see me. I never asked, because I didn't know how to do so gently. It often manifested as an attitude towards her requests (like making her a cup of tea).

With age and maturity, but mostly therapy and having a better understanding of what our History did to us, to our families, our relationships, our bodies- it became easier to see her as a young woman whose life suddenly changed, and she had to adapt, she had to learn to live with the death of a man she loved so deeply that she had nowhere to put her love when he died. The death of a life she wanted, a life she deserved. The death of her daughters, the mental death of her sons- and trying to find where to put all that pain without completely breaking. She had to power through for her babies, for me, for her country.

I am sitting here- with the heaviest heart and a whole lot of gratitude, to have experienced a love that tried; to experience her laughter, her compliments, her protection, her wisdom, and her desire to see us do better, to see us love and be loved, to see us live a life that she prayed for, to see us live. What a gift, to have known Mukarumongi- to have wrestled with a love that tried.

Her life was messy in a lot of ways, but her death- her death was graceful, it was an opening of the heavens- it was her return to home, a place of rest, a place for her heart to reset. May you continue to shake me to my core, may you continue to reveal to me the secrets of this life, and may you continue to watch over me, in this messy and delicious life. May you hold me- my dear dear Mama Mukuru- may you hold me.

I love you, forever- in tears, in laughter, I love you and I miss you.

Winnie Rugamba