In the footsteps of Mawiya

They say families carry their stories in more than memories,sometimes the past lives quietly in our faces, our bones, the way we stand or smile. And in my case, they say I walk with echoes of two remarkable women.

From my father’s side comes the legend of Mawiya, my grandmother, a woman I never met, yet whose presence feels strangely familiar. Her strength, her patience, her generosity… people still speak of them with pride. She sold food at dawn, kenkey steaming in gentle clouds, yam frying crisp, rice perfuming the morning air. And when the sun climbed high, she turned into the jewelry woman from the North, her brass and beads glinting like tiny constellations on her cloth.

But it wasn’t just her hustle that made her unforgettable.

It was her kindness.

Her soft heart.

Her extraordinary patience, the kind that made people say she never fought, never raised her voice, never allowed bitterness to stain her spirit. She simply lived with a grace that made others feel small for being angry around her.

Then there was her sister, Mma Halimatu, known fondly as Maame Kwekwe, a woman whose presence lit up a place before she even spoke. She had those unmistakable features: the cheekbones, the eyes that held mischief and wisdom, the expression that could tell a whole story without a single word.

And somehow, I am a bridge between them.

“They say you have Maame Kwekwe’s face,” I’ve been told more than once. “But your body? Your presence? That is Mawiya all over again.”

Sometimes I wonder what it means to resemble women I’ve never met. But then I realize—maybe it is the universe’s way of reminding me that their stories didn’t end with them. They stitched themselves into me: my features, yes, but also my instincts, my strength, my entrepreneurial fire.

The way I hold on to business opportunities.

The way generosity comes naturally.

The way patience isn’t just a choice but a nature.

And the way people look at me and say, “You remind me of someone…”

It feels like both sisters walk with me—one reflected in my face, the other in my form, both in my spirit. I did not inherit their memories, but I inherited their essence. And sometimes, that feels even more powerful.

In the end, I am their continuation,

a living chapter of the story they began.

And maybe the clearest proof of that lives in my kitchen.

Because I was taught Mawiya’s stew recipe, the one she made with the same care she used to live her life. Slow, patient, flavorful. A recipe that carries the scent of her mornings, the warmth of her generosity, the strength of her spirit.

So perhaps the best way to truly know her story is not just to hear it, but to taste it.

Maybe one day you will visit, sit at my table, and let her rice and stew revive her memory—

a memory simmered, served, and passed lovingly from her hands to mine.

The end.