I went to my Grandma Mamie’s every summer, sometimes even during the year, but this was the first time Roosevelt had visited me.
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I think of her eyes, wet, as they bade me goodbye from the neighbourhood we shared for a year. A proximity that had made my night visits possible, spontaneous.
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Sometimes, my roots—Ife, Babalawo, his cowries, the gods, maami—they make it hard not to believe.
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To make things worse, she had no child—something that, in the eyes of her detractors, was the ultimate proof of her witchcraft.
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A woman’s reflective letter to herself
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There was no guilt, no remorse, even more curiously, no sense of loss.
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They had become inseparable after that day and spent long hours chatting on the phone like old friends.
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Winner of the Fresher Writing Prize 2017 (Flash Fiction Category)
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