Autobiographical Memoir

Autobiographical Memoir

We Should Always Strive to Live a Life We Shall Remember

On the fateful day of 3^rd March 2017, my life took an unexpected turn following the events that occurred to me. My family had planned for over three years on how to undertake our holidays in one of the African countries. The desire to take the trip had been necessitated partly by the life stories of our family friends who had visited Africa and, similarly, the experiences shared with us by African families that had migrated to the country. The most intriguing experience that culminated across the different stories shared with us was the species of wildlife found in African reserves and national parks. The mere thought of seeing the white Rhino, the African lion, and the elephants was an experience that would definitively last in my memory for a very long time.

To me, the travel would form my first experience in life in a flashlight. Firstly, it would be the first time to leave the country, take an international flight, and, most of all, land on a foreign continent. Africa has always had its place in the international arena, with unmatched experiences drawing back to the onset of humanity and the rare species of wildlife. Each one of us in the family had a list of the first things we would attempt when the day finally arrived. To my younger sister, Jane, she was clear on her first thing, which most of us had expected to have changed over the three years. My mother had asked us to create a list of the things we would all do in the first case. On this date, I asked Jane, “Hey, younger sister, what is the first thing you’ll do in Africa?’’ Jane replied, “First, I’ll taste the African sand.” Jokingly and without regard to her statement, my mother overheard us while in the kitchen and said, “Jane, I thought your list has changed over time; anyway, I can blame you. You have always loved to eat and taste anything that you come across.”

We were scheduled to leave the country for Africa in a week’s time. However, in a family comprising five members, two parents, two children, and one senior citizen, fate would have it that we could not all travel for vacation. My grandmother had been living with us for about seven years after being diagnosed with a chronic disease. However, she was one of the most positive and happy people one would ever meet in life. She always narrated to us how her youthful life reflected itself in us and reminded us to always appreciate youthfulness. In particular, she said, “Life has given us a common and equal share time; whatever you do with it, make sure you are always happy.” She had played a critical role in always encouraging my parents to always take us out on vacations by reminding my dad with a comical phrase, “Hey Max, whenever time allows, take the kids for holidays; remember how you used to skip meals at the dinner table whenever you did something wrong, and as a punishment, I would say you won’t accompany us for holidays next summer?”

On this day, she was to have her regular checkups, which were administered from home due to the level the disease had reached. My grandmother was always happy, always jovial, and quoting the Bible on the doctrinal years one was to live in this world. “70 is the number of my children; after that, you start to descend.” She always said. I had heard of this statement for the past 7 years, and so, I always said to myself, “She is 80 plus years old; she will soon forget.”

As the doctor left her room on this day, she seemed a bit dull and left her usual mimic of my grandmother’s doctrinal number of 70 years. They had grown fond of each other, and any time she left the house, she could say, “70 is Mama’s number; keep and protect it. You might miss heaven because of that number.”

My father always escorted the doctor down the driveways to talk, among other issues, about my grandmother’s condition, which he wanted neither the kids nor the patient to grasp. The partying shot this time around seemed a bit long, and my father seemed perturbed as he nodded his head left-right in what looked like disbelief. My father returned to the house and called us all at the dining table. My grandmother has just taken a nap after taking her 4 p.m. medicine. As we sat at the table, my father shared with us the heartbreaking news. “Kids, grandmother has less than a week to live. Doctor Rose notified me that, at the very extreme, she has five days.”

Just by that statement, Doctor Rose’s information had dismantled our plan to visit the African continent, robbed us of the happiness we hoped to derive from sharing a roof with our grandmother, and forced us to start planning for life without our grandmother. It was at this moment that the words of my grandmother came back, calling, “70 is the number, my children; after that, you start to descend.” At this moment, I realized we should always strive to live a life we shall remember and appreciate what we have.

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Autobiographical Memoir

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