When she had come to grips, I remember Mama Steph finding Achamin and I standing on the hallway. I remember her telling Achamin, “When we were in the car, I told you that my boy was leaving, and you refused to believe me. Do you believe me now?” Achamin could not find the tongue to respond. I remember thinking how unfair that question was – but then again, what part of losing a 4-year-old son is fair? Life always seems unfair to those who have never met death.
Yet she could not remember her own name. She tried recalling all the female names she knew, certain she would recognise hers once she heard it. Fatuma. Naima. Khadija. Hawa. Malyun. Zainab. Ambiya. Batula. Rukiya. Ifrah. Quresha… None sounded like the name she would know to be hers.
If I tell you I do not think the next Safaricom Jazz Festival will be amazing, I will be lying. Because this last one taught me to hold my reservation off, and just show up to enjoy the music.