They carry stories in their wrinkles, recipes in their hands, and history in their hearts. Grandmothers are our living archives.
If Africa had a national library that never closed, never charged overdue fees, and never needed electricity, it would be called Grandmother. She is the only institution where history is not read quietly but shouted across the courtyard, usually while stirring soup with one hand and disciplining a grandchild with the other. UNESCO may be busy preserving manuscripts, but our grandmothers are busy preserving sense.
A grandmother does not need Google. She is Google… only louder, slower, and fond of starting answers from the year 1963. Ask her a simple question like, “Grandma, where is the salt?” and she will begin with, “When I married your grandfather…” By the time she finishes, you will have found the salt yourself, learnt three family secrets, and discovered why pepper should never be kept near sugar.
These women carry knowledge the way a tortoise carries its shell, heavy, slow-moving, but impossible to steal. Their memories are like old radio sets: sometimes crackly, sometimes skipping, but always broadcasting wisdom you didn’t ask for but desperately need. And God forbid you try to correct them. Correcting a grandmother is like arguing with harmattan—useless and bad for your health.
Every wrinkle on a grandmother’s face is a footnote. Each one whispers, “I have seen things.” She has seen hunger and harvest, soldiers and sermons, kerosene lamps and smartphones. She knows which leaf cures stomach ache, which neighbour is a witch (allegedly), and which family member will not amount to much unless prayer is applied generously.
And let us talk about food, the holy scripture of grandmotherhood. A grandmother’s kitchen is a sacred shrine where measurements are guided by the spirit. No cups. No spoons. Just “add small”, which somehow feeds twenty people and still leaves leftovers. Her food tastes better because it is seasoned with gossip, patience, and mild threats. “Eat properly,” she will say, “or you will grow up foolish.” Nobody knows the science behind it, but nobody dares test it.
Grandmothers are also Africa’s first comedians, though they don’t know it. Their insults are Olympic-standard. They can reduce you to laughter and tears in one sentence. “You are looking fresh,” she says, pauses, then adds, “like someone who has not worked since morning.” If sarcasm were a crop, grandmothers would feed the continent.
Yet behind the humour lies a deep well of wisdom. They teach without classrooms, lecture without notes, and discipline without written laws. Their stories are parables dressed as gossip. Their advice comes disguised as scolding. Like old proverbs, they do not bend to modern fashion, but they never go out of style.
Sadly, we live in a time when these libraries are closing without notice. One day, the voice that shouted your name across the compound goes silent, and suddenly you realise no one else remembers why your family avoids a particular road, or how to cook that soup that tastes like childhood. When a grandmother dies, a whole syllabus disappears.
So laugh with them. Sit with them. Record them if you must. But above all, listen. Because while books can be reprinted, a grandmother cannot be replaced. She is a walking archive, a talking museum, and a comedy show rolled into one sturdy wrapper.
Africa does not just lose elders when grandmothers go. It loses chapters.
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