REMEMBERING MAM

Mam was the village money lender. She did not charge any interest. At her funeral were those who still had to pay back – some after many years. I felt compelled to remind them of this in the eulogy – not in a subtle and malicious effort to collect, but to show that I understood why so many had made the effort to come to pay their respect. I wanted them to know that I understood why she did not mind being awaken in the early hours of the morning before the cocks crowed, donkeys brayed and dogs barked – reminders that it was time for morning prayers.
Like her, I heard the small sleepy voices of the children who were sent on this begging errand before the crack of dawn. The doors and shutters of the small wooden house were still closed, but they never kept out the rattling force of the wind gusting in from the Atlantic ocean and making us reluctant to leave the warmth of worn blankets that quickly got pulled over our heads. The voices also came in without resistance.
“Good morning, Miss A. Mama said if you can lend her a dollar.”
They never identified themselves or their mothers, but my mother knew each voice and made an instant link to the mothers. There were no rejections. There were no forms to sign. There were no belittling remarks to the children about overdue accounts. Times, she would say, were hard.
The bed creaked as she got up without hesitation to lend a helping hand. She searched in the dark for the cotton head-tie that could never fit right on her long, thick head of hair she inherited from her African and Portuguese parents. She clapped it on her head and tried to succeed in fastening it, if not in straightening it. I was sure that the children could hear the reassuring sounds of her feet moving in shuffling haste on the wooden floor. In their minds they could see her grabbing the money bag from under the pillow. She never had to look or ask for it because we never touched it without her permission. The money bag was a piece of fabric, usually cotton, shaped into little sack, not more than about 8 inches long, stitched together with a drawstring opening. It was never stuffed to the brim, but it was never empty either.
She went to the back door that faced the ocean. The wind greeted her as if dancing with a playmate. She staggered a bit, but regained her balance. Off went the head-tie, but the attempt to undo the long thick plaits were futile. The long cotton nightgown billowed to fatten her slight frame. Never one to be fat, but always admiring those who had meat on their bones, she laughed enjoying the fantasy of having her wish fleetingly granted by a pesky friend.
The supplicants spoke up. She attended to those who needed a dollar or more to head the to shops in the neighboring village where the bought bread, butter, evaporated milk or other breakfast and lunch items. She nodded in agreement to the requests of parents who wanted her to buy shoes, ribbons, buttons or fabric from the bigger stores in the small capital city – known as the town. She never bothered to write it down in the stained, dogeared notebook she scribbled in. They sent no money. Perhaps she knew that they could never repay it all. She always honored their requests. I was always amazed that she knew their shoe size. Later on, after her return from the town, she would organize the pick ups and share a joke with grateful mothers. After that she would sit on the back step facing the Atlantic ocean to shell the bowl of green pigeon peas somebody had brought for our supper. She threw a few to the roosters, hens and chicks who had gathered around. She had already fed the pigs so she could sit and listen to their grunts as they feasted on the treat of over-ripe mangoes somebody else had left in the back yard. She would enjoy the breeze that fanned her face to dry the sweat and lessen the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Life, she would say, was not easy, but it was worth it to be alive.