A Villager’s Story-Grandmother

 By now, you know the story of the Mother Letter Project.  See the FAQs for more information. Don’t forget to tell us if you are writing or donating.

Over the next few Mondays, I will be sharing stories from the village that inspired this project.  These are the people I remember from Mozambique. 

GRANDMOTHER’S GREENS

We walked through her back gate into a little dirt courtyard. A weathered woman sat on a three legged stool, balancing precariously and beating leafy greens against the side of a bucket.  She greeted us warmly, the three white foreigners and only one she knew by name.  This was the woman that Kyle called grandmother, and her face reflected sunlight when Kyle walked us through the back gate.

“Welcome.  Come and sit,” she said in her native tongue.  There were no available three legged stools, so she offered us two upside down buckets.  She told Kyle to sit on the dirt, and laughed.  Children climbed on her weary shoulders, making her bend under their weight.  They laughed and made loud gestures, hoping to capture our attention.  Grandmother was strong and had suffered well the village children for the better part of her life.  She directed them to the back part of the courtyard and they, for the most part, obeyed willingly.

We talked.  She told us about her village.  She asked us about our homes.  She tried to teach us words in her native tongue, how to say thank you.  We taught her how to say hello.  Neither we, nor she were able to quite capture the nuance of the other’s language.  We both exchanged hearty laughs.

She continued to beat her greens against the side of a bucket and asked me if I knew what she was doing. I did not. She told me that their beans grew in sandy soil and beating them against the side of the bucket knocked the dirt down. She was cleaning the greens, she said. 

Do you like greens, she asked.

My wife doesn’t cook bean greens, I told her. My wife makes turnip greens.  Grandmother didn’t know turnip greens and asked whether they were anything like pumpkin greens.  I did not know, I told her.  I thought briefly about making a reference to collard greens, but decided that the cultural disconnect was great enough without adding a fourth green into the mix.

Grandmother asked about the black mechanical necklace hanging around my neck.  I told her it was a camera and asked her whether she would tolerate a picture.  She smiled, and laughed lowly, and said yes, she thought she would.  Kyle sat beside her for her first portrait.  I raised the camera, snapped the picture, and waited for the digital image to appear.  I turned the camera around and showed her the image. 

She looked strangely at the image on the camera and said some words to Kyle.  Kyle translated.  “She says it must be her because she sees me in the picture,” Kyle said.  “She’s never seen a picture of herself. She is surprised by the age of her face.”  She smiled and continued to laugh a little as she stared at the image on the back of the camera. 

When the picture vanished, Kyle told grandmother that we had our own supper to tend to.  She didn’t rise from her stool, but bowed low and thanked us for sharing some time with her.  She smiled and laughed.

Hours later, grandmother came to Kyle’s front porch.  A little wooden bowl of bean greens was all she carried. She asked for the man with the mechanical necklace and when I made my way to the porch, she handed me the bowl.  You will like these, she said. Tell your wife they are better greens, the kind of greens that you should eat in America.  I took the bowl, ate a spoonful, and attempted to thank her in her native tongue.  She bowed and turned to go, leaving me with the bowl of greens.

I agree, grandmother.  These are the kind of greens we should eat in America.

Tagged as: A Villager's Story