I never knew my grandfather. In Abagana, the village where his daughter, my mother, was born, his house stands deserted, the compound overgrown with weeds so lush and emerald-hued that the yard looks Edenic, masking the fact of neglect. This is not paradise, though it looks like it. My grandfather died in 2008 (I hope paradise is where he is), and none of my family in Anambra can afford to come back to the village just to mow the lawn, so we stand—my uncle, my five year-old cousin, and a certain boy—just inside in the overgrown compound, watching a family friend use a machete to cut a path to Grandpa’s grave. My grandfather was buried in front of the house where he lived his whole adult life. I, displaced Nigerian-American, cannot imagine being that attached to one place. I photograph the grave, then spend a moment of silence with it, wondering about the appropriate thing to think about at a time like this, in front of the grave of someone you never knew and should have known. Minutes later, when my uncle takes pictures of us, my five year-old cousin and I giggle and flex our arms and pose as if we’re both children. I wonder whether we should be this happy in the wilderness that houses our grandfather’s death. The boy calls my name, goes to a tree, and picks two green fruits. He asks if I know what they are. I voice uncertainty, though when he says “guava,” I realize I knew. Following his lead, I bite the hard green peel, exposing beady pink pulp, like jewels, on the inside. We stand eating (I and this boy for whom something is growing, like weeds, in my American heart) fresh guava in my grandfather’s compound/my grandfather’s graveyard.
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