Editor’s Note: In partnership with The 2024 Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction, Isele Magazine publishes the winner, the runner-up, and the notable essays selected by the curators of the award. Mariam Oyewunmi Tijani‘s “My Grandmother’s Memory Box” is the winner. 

Award Founder’s Note: The winner of The 2024 Abebi Award in Afro-Nonfiction is “My Grandmother’s Memory Box” – a tender and moving tribute in honour of Nana, and the redemptive power of photographs, even in the face of the terrors of aging and life. Written in silky smooth fragments, this essay’s beautiful use of language and symmetry shone brightly to us, and we bring you this gem with its gentle brilliance. 

1.

My grandmother adores photographs. She fixes her gaze as if on an attentive, thirsty search, cradling the face in whichever photo she holds. It flashes like moments of epiphany, as if she can suddenly replay every memory of the person in her mind. When I was only six, peeping through a small opening in her door, I watched her choose one from a stack of five albums—I would later learn that they were deliberately arranged in descending order of affection. Back then, I imagined she was under a spell cast by a bewitched photograph, much like in the movies her caregiver loved to watch. Over the years, I have observed Nana wiping, arranging, and guarding her photo albums as though they were the most fragile treasures. And each time she looks at them, it is with a fascination that seems as if she’s seeing them for the first time.

We began calling her ‘Nana’ the evening she met her last caregiver. The lady had said, “Nana, how are you? My name is Aaliyah..” but my grandmother echoed “Nana, nana, nana…” exactly eleven times, like the cooing of birds at dawn, and in that instant, she was a toddler learning her own name. Despite helplessly watching as dementia slowly takes her, I see her truly alive in only two instances: when she hears the Muezzin call the Adhan and when she lovingly rocks the album containing the faces of her mother. 

 2.

Today, Nana looks at me with a mix of familiarity and fondness. She smiles. She remembers. I ask her about the first photograph she ever owned—a rectangular black-and-white gelatin silver print her uncle had gifted her in a surprise. She had been stoked to hold an exact replica of herself, nurturing it like a child until she acquired more and assembled an album. When I ask why her love for photographs never inspired her to take her own, her smile fades.

“But I have mine,” she replies, gazing at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“No, I mean taking pictures of the things and people you love.”

“Áyàworán? Like a photoman?”

“Actually, a photographer.”

“But I am a woman.” Her confusion deepens at my incoherence.

3.

Friday evenings are Nana’s sacred hours. After Jumat prayers, we emerge from the mosque among a sea of reverent worshippers, draped in jalabiyas and hijabs, exchanging solemn chants of teslim. At home, Nana retreats to a corner with the album next in line after the one she viewed the previous Friday, emerging only when the Muezzin calls for Asr prayers. Her ritual of selecting albums is unwavering. Perhaps it’s the years of this practice, or, as I like to believe, this meticulous order of album selection is one battle dementia can never win. After months of observing her, I can now guess which album she holds, even with my eyes closed. 

4. 

The first album holds only monochrome, weathered portraits of Nana’s mother, my great-grandmother. It wasn’t until the late 20th century that photography began to thrive and blossom into colour in Nigeria. I remember the awe I felt when I first saw that Nana, with her round face, dreamy eyes, and full figure, was a mirror image of her mother. On the album’s cover is an inscription: “Iya Mi, Nana Hawaw (1900-1991).” Inside, a note is affixed to the binder—unique among her albums—written by Nana to honor her late father, whom she never knew. The last page features a photo of my great-grandmother, smiling widely as she styled Nana’s hair into braided high ponytails. Years of watching Nana devote her attention and longing to this photograph have shown me it is her most cherished of her mother. Occasionally, she attempts to recreate the smile. At other times, she is overcome with tears and I hurry to comfort her. 

5. 

The most decorated photo album is the one bearing pictures of Nana, positioned second in the box. I like to think an observant stranger could easily write a biography of Nana, particularly detailing her favorite things, if they ever found this album. Bound with a ribbon of sunrise yellow, Nana’s favorite color, and marked with bookmarks adorned with bright prints of mosques—like the one down the street, her favorite place to be—the album delineates different phases of her life. The first photo, from her uncle, shows her in fitted sportswear, knee-high sparkling socks, and a thin gold medal around her neck. It’s Nana’s time machine—a grand opening that marks the beginning of her obsession. Upon seeing this photo, Nana’s soft giggles fill the air, and she glows as if she can instantly hear the house captain announcing her as the winner from the blue house.

6.

 The album of my grandmother’s only child, my mother, is the largest. It contains photos of my mother from infancy to the end. Memories of my mother’s demise erupt like torrents, threatening to suffocate, to consume. Years ago, Nana had carried her Qur’an clutched to her chest like her thin thread of hope, while we hovered around my mother’s withering body, muttering prayers that she would be well and fill the house with her glee again.

Nana devotes the most time to this album, her gaze lingering longest, her thirst for the past unquenchable. She paces the room, her face etched with a scowl and shoulders burdened by a pain that overwhelms. She bites her finger and sulks like a child.  On days when I peek through the door, the air thickens with her misery. Nana’s tears unsettle me, and I feel a profound pity for her. Yet, I do not approach to comfort her. Instead, I retreat to my own room and weep, for this grief is one we share. 

7.

The fourth album in the box holds photos of me. It is the smallest of them all. Whenever Nana picks up this album, I brace for a ride of strenuous facial expressions, as it usually leads to an evening of irresistible laughter. This is the only time I don’t need to hide behind doors to watch Nana; she invites me to join her. These are the photos she can view with her vulnerability laid bare. We laugh together at the picture of me with a lollipop hanging from my mouth, drooling and soiling my baggy pants. Some photos show me surrounded by large ride-on toys and fancy accessories, remnants of which I still find in the storeroom. 

8. 

The most unappealing album holds photos of my grandfather. It is placed last in Nana’s box. My grandfather, having vanished years ago with Nana’s life savings, left no trace behind. Nana never opens this album. When her memory falters, it is the shortest time she spends with any album. With grandfather’s photos, there is no focus, no longing, no tenderness. 

Photos, like many forms of art, are potent tools for keeping people and memories alive. The simple act of capturing and preserving a moment elevates our spirits. When a photo or memory from the past stirs our soul, it reflects our undyingness. Conversely, when we avoid or refuse to preserve a person’s memory out of contempt, then the person is dead to us. 

9.

It has been ten years since Nana passed away. Since then, I have been wiping, arranging, and safeguarding her albums. My own photo album, now the largest and most ornate, is covered in violet velvet with little heart shapes embroidered across it. I’ve added bookmarks resembling coral beads, dividing the pictures into different phases of my life. After starting photography classes, I got a digital single-lens reflex camera. I have inherited Nana’s obsession, using my art to tell stories that keep souls alive. Yet, unlike Nana, I am from a generation of women who can claim what is ours.   

About the Author:

Mariam Oyewunmi Tijani is a Nigerian storyteller. She is an alum of the 2024 Sprinng Writing Fellowship.

*Feature image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash