Rest in Peace Aminata Kai Marrah – Si’ Kai (mi mama)

I had just two basic fears: fear of failure in any enterprise in life and the fear of losing my mother. I have failed at least once in life and I have just lost my mom. See, you can lose anything or everything in this life and recover. But once you lose a mother, you can’t really ever recover or at least not begin to feel a tad helpless. No other love on earth can rival a mother’s. I teared up many times as a boy whenever the imagination sneaked in that my mother would die one day.  

My mother was the one that lit up our family, a sublime contrast to my dad, a committed disciplinarian and somewhat an introvert. She was an animated, industrious and sociable soul. She was almost always juggling a thousand and one stuff. She hawked every ware you’d imagine in Kissy and its environs to support my dad on their mission to get us education, a secure exit from poverty. My mother was a fiercely passionate soul, a lover of life, kind-hearted and neighborly. She befriended my friends and those of my brothers’ at first meet. She knew all our slanguage back then and intercepted many of our juvenile exploits. She was involved in the minutiae of our lives. She inspired my reading culture in my early childhood and the many stories she shared with me stimulated my appetite for the art of storytelling.

I can’t forget how we swapped African Writers Series books after you’d have finished cooking—“A fresh Start”; “Meet Me in Conakry”; “Christmas in the City” etc. —and spent time discussing the storylines. In my early childhood, you were a petty trader in the morning but an educator at noon and night. That was what prompted you to become a teacher later on. And what about that night when you were pregnant with Michael and we went out to buy bred and fry-fry (your favorite, small money you get, you don go buy bred n fry fry) and your water broke out. You told me to dash home to tell our dad that you’d gone to Mamie Alice at Newcastle Street to be delivered. I was back then a little jealous when our last brother came and stole the lastina spot from me; but you ensured that our bond deepened no matter the position.  

My mom spoke at least four local languages fluently (Mende, Temne, Loko and Krio) and my dad also speaks at least three. I think that’s the reason we didn’t/don’t discuss ethnicity and divisive politics in my family since our parents represent(ed) a melting pot of North-West and South-East. For us as a family, every tribe is important and every region the same.

Thank you Aminata Kai Marrah (Si’ Kai) for the selfless unconditional love you lavished on us and the many folks that crossed your path. Your three boys could’ve traded their lives just to save yours if it were possible. It’s God’s time for you to join your son, Stephen (Junior)—he must have missed you a lot all these past 18 years. Heaven won’t be boring anymore for him. And with J.J. Banting who used to call you Mama Si’ Kai, eternity would be epic. 

We love you Si’ Kai. I just woke up to the news of a new reality. This world would never be the same again for me, Emmanuel and Michael. There are no longer any fears for me. Your death drained me of the last ounce.

You know we fought this together really hard; but God, in His infinite wisdom, has called you home to rest from your labors. It is well! Sleep then and take your rest in the Kingdom of Christ Jesus whom you believed even unto death. I will miss you forever Si’ Kai. Rest in peace mi mama…forever and always my love!