When She Was Allowed To Dream.

My mother’s second dream was to own a supermarket.

As a child, I sat with her in our compound in the evenings, after all the chores were completed, or took a walk with her if the weather was nice. It was on these walks that we usually talked about our future dreams.

“Mariama, if we were to get a lot of money right now, I would open a supermarket. I will own a big business,” she would happily tell me while we strolled. To which I always replied, “Don’t worry, mama, when I am grown and go to America and become a successful lawyer, I will build you a supermarket.” We never had deep conversations about why she wanted to own one, and I never questioned it.

I never knew owning a supermarket was my mama’s second dream until I sat down to interview her for this profile I’m writing. In African culture, we do not talk of these things. A child stays in a child’s place, never questioning their parent. So, when I signed up to join the American army at age 20, I never knew that mama, too, had dreamed of becoming an army doctor. This was her first dream. She was always attracted to the uniform as a young girl, especially when she saw female soldiers. She wanted to be like them.

But at age 13, mama was forced to leave school. She was in seventh grade. Her older sister became pregnant at age 17. The pregnancy put a heavier strain on my grandma, a single parent, and she told my mother to drop out of school because she couldn’t afford to pay her school fees while also taking care of my aunt and her baby. Every morning when she saw other kids in their school uniforms, she wept at the unfairness of her life. But she didn’t give up. She stayed home and read the Bible, teaching herself new words. She would read novels, books, and newspapers to help her learn new things. Then, when she didn’t know any words, she would ask others to teach her. She didn’t want to forget what little information she had learned in school.

***

Though I talk to my mother two to three times a week via video call, I can't accurately remember what she looks like. The last time I saw her in person, I was fifteen. We were at the Sierra Leone International airport at 5: 00 a.m., and she was standing behind a boarding checkpoint, holding my baby sister in her arms, waving a tearful goodbye to me while I boarded my flight to America. "Promise you will call me as soon as your father picks you up in America, okay?" This was 12 years ago.

Since I'm writing about our relationship, I asked her to describe herself to me over the phone, and she laughingly said, "Well, Mariama, I look just like you, only with an extra, darker complexion. So just describe yourself." But more somberly, she added, "It's okay if you don't remember me. Since your grandmother's death twenty years ago, I don't remember what she looks like, either. I can't even picture her face, only that she used to have long, beautiful hair."

My mama describes herself in this way: At age 49, Mamakoh Vandi is a beautiful dark-skinned woman with a head full of long beautiful, thick hair that she loves wearing in braids. She has thin dark eyebrows sitting atop big brown eyes that are round like marbles, framing a round lovely face. She hates her lips because they are not as full and thick as she would like them to be, but she doesn't think there's anything she can do about it, so oh well. But she has beautiful, big breasts that she is very proud of. She's short, not too short, just medium height, which is good because she's not too thin or too fat, just a round, magnificently shaped body. She doesn’t wear makeup because she doesn’t have the time or patience to learn. Who needs make up anyway when you are naturally beautiful?

Though I can't remember what mama looks like, I know the sound of her voice is high-pitched when she's excited, especially when she has a juicy gossip to tell me at 2 a.m. about someone I knew years ago. On a slow day, her voice is deep and smooth when talking. Her voice is usually a mix of soft-spoken and nervous sniggering when she asks me for money or tells me something she knows I might disagree with. She laughs deeply and loudly without restraint when she's delighted. It's usually a mix between giggling and cackling.

***

Nowadays, mama is a modestly good, kind person who always shares whatever small resources she has with others. While I love this about her, as someone who supports her financially, this sometimes frustrates me. She’s a woman that will share her last piece of meal with a stranger if they even look like they are hungry. I think this may be why she dreamed of owning a supermarket because she wants to feed everyone.

She is not a religious fanatic but is very serious about her Christian religion, sometimes even to her detriment. “God has his reasons for everything” is mama’s daily mantra. But it was a surprise to learn that she is still bitter at her parents, even after their deaths, for not providing her the education she thinks she deserves. Mama said she went twelve years without talking to her father. It was only on his deathbed that she forgave him.

“I would have made a better life for myself if my parents had just sent me to school. I see my agemates, and I feel shame that I can never be at their level in life. But you know what, God has his reasons for everything. I guess since I couldn’t be in the army, God gave me a child that accomplished my dreams of being in the army.”