Mother’s Day
With ten to twelve mouths to feed and with limited funds, Maman had no time to indulge in cuddles and billing and cooing. Certainly I did not benefit from these. Not that I deserved being called anybody’s little jewel, or to have my hurt kissed. I was quite an unendearing child. I told lies, I had boils, I kept walking on rusty nails, I pissed the bed. I stole coins from my Pa’s pocket when nobody was watching, and I hated reading the Koran. I was also the darkest of all the children, and had a flat nose. I was never around when Maman had to send someone to the shop.
To crown it all, I suffered from some sort of conjunctivitis. On waking up in the morning, my eyes stayed closed, sealed by a crust formed over the lids. I was ordered not to rub them, as this would indubitably make matters worse, possibly leading to blindness. This condition would last for about an hour every morning, and then by sheer will-power I managed to prise the lids open. Clearly a remedy had to be found. A miaji (Muslim priest) was summoned to come read a few duahs (verses), but that helped not a whit. Someone suggested that it was a méchanceté, inflicted by a malevolent neighbour, but no one knew how to deal with this.
A remedy was somehow suggested by an elderly femme-sage, a midwife: Boil a red rose in water, allow it to cool, soak a piece of cloth in this, and apply to the stuck organs seven times. Fortunately the rich Manjoos two doors away had a garden, and Auntie Manjoo was the kindest lady in the neighbourhood. She readily offered us one red rose every afternoon, which I went to collect, and next morning, Maman would boil it, and carry out the instructions given to her. She would unsmilingly grab me by the hand, and sit me on a soap box and rub my eyes with the rose-water, my eyes opening up on the stroke of seven.
On cold winter nights away from home, I have often kept warm in the glow of these memories.
