“If you were to go back in time and change one thing what would that be?” 

Yaie-Gormai is my great grandmother. My mother mother’s mother. We all call her Yaie. Yaie reads “Yard” but with the “D” sound being replaced with a “Y” sound. And Gormai, reads “God-man”  but without the “D” sound in God.

Yaie-Gormai, mama tells me, was a beautiful singer. An amazing entertainer.

But mama, why I didn’t really hear Yaie sing? I only heard Yaie humming to herself when she was working in her garden. At her house in Red Light, Paynesville city—which is now referred to as Foequelleh. The other time I heard Yaie singing was when I traveled with her to St. Andrew’s Lutheran Church, in Gaye Town, Monrovia, Montserrado County. But we all sang just like everyone else in the church.

This was the first time when mama said his full name to me. Kerkulah-Kpàkolo.

Your great grandfather was shot. In cold blood. He was envied and hated so much by this person that the ground that your great grandfather, whom your brother right before you is named after, walked on was unbearable to see—by this person. Your great grandfather was on his way to the farm one evening alone without the relative that usually go with him. This was when he was shot. And left there. Alone. In the brushes.  When your great grandfather did not return back home like he usually does. On time. Yaie, me and the rest of the family started searching for him. Everywhere.

Yaie. Mama said with a raying smile plastered across her face, as she traveled back in times. To cash out some deposits from her memory banks that she had stored away. So tightly and so securely. Your great grandmother, mama continued. Sang so beautifully that she was carried around by people in a hammock. They lifted her up in the air and I followed walking behind them all. Another huge and bright smile stopped by for a visit. Unannounced. It stayed for a much longer visit and I enjoyed every single second of its visit. Bright and beaming like the sunshine at 12 O’clock during the hot dry season month of January in Liberia, shone across mama’s face making her look almost like Yaie, as I sat in admiration.

People hardly let Yaie walked by herself. Mama continued. Yaie sang while men, women and children were working on the farms. Planting rice. Harvesting rice. Yaie sang and entertained people. Yaie cheered people on and when she started to sing it would continued for days and nights. In addition to the dancing and the celebrations. People will go to Yaie’s farm to help her out just so they can have her sing as the people worked. Yaie was loved.

Sing for me mama, I pleaded. Please mama, I hold your two foot. Sing me some of Yaie’s songs. Please? Trying to pull off-I am your last baby girl kind-of look. Do this for me please. But my mother, being her true self, knew what I was up to before I even started, and mama said to me, you should be asking your aunty Mary to sing you her mother’s songs. Don’t be asking me. By now mama’s smile had turned into a full-on laughter. She gave in and we both started laughing.

Then mama started to sing for me.  I stopped everything and soaked it all in.

Mama and Yaie were both singing for me at once.

To be continued….

Thank you for reading.

Lawuo, Yemah-Gbokwoh, Zorkleene, Aalafayiah, Dolokolliemah, Cummings and Naimah