- My mother always says,
"If you don't know where you're going,
"know from where you come."
I was at a point in my life
where I didn't feel as connected to my roots,
and I certainly didn't know where I was going.
And so, after several years of living abroad,
I decided to return to my home country of Sierra Leone.
I was particularly excited to see my grandmother.
She had raised me up until age three.
She was the matriarch of our family.
She was bold and vivacious,
and she was the glue that held our family together.
And so, when I finally made it to Sierra Leone,
the first person I went to see was her, my grandmother.
I remember driving up to her house where I had grown up,
and it didn't look as big as I remembered it.
And there was my grandmother standing by the doorway,
and she didn't look as big as I remembered her.
She stood there a little frail, but it didn't matter.
I ran to her embrace and just hugged her
and held her and inhaled her scent.
I was finally home.
I spent that weekend with my grandmother, and my cousins,
and my aunts, and we're catching up.
We were cooking and eating and laughing,
and they reminded me
that my name isn't Fatou, it's Fatou.
And,
you know, learn to say your name.
And, I also got to learn that my last name
had roots, had ancestry, had home.
My cousins and I were gettin' to know each other again,
and they did say to me
that my grandmother wasn't her usual self,
that she wasn't as lively or as outgoing,
that she was a little bit more withdrawn.
So one afternoon I went to my grandmother's room,
and I laid beside her, and I said, "Grandma, what's wrong?
"Everyone says, you're not as jovial.
"You're a little withdrawn, you're a little quiet.
"What's going on?"
She simply turned to me and said,
"Fatou, when the heart is full, it cannot speak."
In that moment,
I had to remember that my grandmother
had endured 11 years of civil war,
that she had lost her husband, my grandfather, to the war,
that she had lost her only two sons, my two uncles,
to the war, and that most recently,
she had lost her eldest daughter, my aunt.
I had to remember why my grandmother was so tired,
and so, I just edged closer to her,
once again, inhaling her scent.
A couple of days later,
my mother and I returned to the capital city, Freetown,
and listen, I hadn't lived with my mom for a minute,
and we were getting reacquainted with one another.
She didn't appreciate that I didn't have hair, I was bald.
She didn't appreciate my pierced nose.
Apparently, I was really loud.
And she would say things like,
"This is not the daughter I raised."
And I'd be like, "But mommy, this is who I am, accept me."
And we would just back and forth, back and forth,
it was awkward.
But, every Sunday, we would have dinner together,
and we would try to get to know one another,
understand one another or something.
And,
one Sunday,
we're having our usual mother-daughter dinner,
when I got a call from one of my aunts.
I picked up the phone, and she said, "Grandma, done go."
I could feel my mother looking at me,
and so I turned to her and said,
"Mommy, grandma, don’t go, grandma is gone."
My mother quickly stood up from the table and said,
"Okay, go to the spare bedroom, open the second drawer,
"pack everything that you see in there,
"pack your bags, and let's go."
And so, that's what I did.
I went to the spare bedroom.
I opened the second drawer,
and I found all this white material, linen, chiffon, cotton,
and recognized that my mother was preparing for this day
when her mother would go.
I quickly packed everything that I saw in a bag,
and then I packed my bag, and in 20 minutes,
my mother and I were on our way to our mother's,
my grandmother's house.
The only thing I really remember from that night
is, as we drove up to my grandmother's house,
the moon shone so brightly,
and it was the only light that lit the entire street
that was usually filled with life and joy and noise.
When we arrived, we got our bags,
and the minute we entered my grandmother's house,
my mother dropped her bags to the ground
and let out a howl that could only come
from the depths of her being,
her mother, my grandmother, was gone.
My aunts rushed to my mother's side,
and she sobbed in their arms,
and I just stood there and watched.
My aunts took my mother towards my grandmother's room,
and some of my aunts went in, and then my mother went in,
and as I was about to enter my grandmother's room,
one of my older aunts came and shut the door in front of me.
I said, "Auntie, what's going on?
"I want to go inside, mommy is inside.
"I want to participate in washing grandma's body.
"This is the most intimate part, I want to go inside.
"Why did you close the door?"
My aunt just looked at me and said,
"Fatou, I cannot let you in that room.
"You're not a society woman."
I knew what she meant.
She meant that I hadn't gone through (speaks foreign word),
and (speaks foreign word) is what we formally know
as female genital mutilation or circumcision,
and the reason I hadn't gone through (speaks foreign word)
is because my grandmother,
who was a chief (speaks foreign word),
and a (speaks foreign word) is a female leader
that does the initiating of young girls
into the society of (speaks foreign word),
had decided that I and my sisters
would be the first girls in our family and our community
not to go through (speaks foreign word).
(audience applauds)
But her decision meant
that I was now on the other side of the door,
and I could not enter.
I saw that my aunt would not relent,
and so, for the first time since coming home,
I felt like an outsider.
And I had to walk away,
a little sad and a little disappointed.
The next day was my grandmother's funeral,
and in the morning,
the entire community came to pay their final respects.
They had washed my grandmother's body
and had laid her in the center of her living room,
and she looked so regal and beautiful and at peace,
wrapped in white.
I went to her bedroom, and just sat for a moment,
trying to feel her presence, perhaps for the last time.
And was lost in my thoughts,
when seven young girls, no older than 10,
all rushed, with all of this energy, into the room,
wearing big colorful skirts,
and they were decked in like white clay masks,
and they had so much energy.
And for a moment there, they lightened the mood,
and so I just watched them play.
A couple of minutes later,
one of my older aunts walked into the room
and said to the girls,
"Hush, get yourself together, we have to go."
And so, I turned to my aunt and said,
"Auntie, what's going on, we're about to bury grandma,
"where are you going?"
She said, "Listen, in order to bury your grandmother,
"we need to take these girls to the bush and initiate them,
"so that grandma can rest in peace."
What do I say to that?
My grandmother is a chief (speaks foreign word).
In order for her to rest in peace,
these seven young girls
must go to the bush and be initiated.
This is how I wanted my grandmother to go,
the woman that I loved so much, so what do I say?
And so, I stood there silently and watched,
as my aunt took the seven young girls away to the bush.
A couple of hours later,
I was told that we were ready to bury my grandmother,
and so I walked outside with the entire community.
My mother as per the ritual,
walked towards my grandmother's body for the last time,
and sprayed perfume on her body,
turned her back, and walked away.
I stood there with everyone else and watched,
as they hoisted my grandmother to her grave,
and, in that moment, I had to realize,
that the place I come from,
it's strong, it's bold, it's brave.
This is the place that my grandmother came from,
and my grandmother made the decision to give me this gift,
to say that I and my sisters
would not go through (speaks foreign word).
Therefore, her decision meant,
that wherever I decide to go in this world,
whatever I decide to do in this world,
I would be a different kind of girl.
Thank you.