Gramma Fanny was an average-size woman, dark in complexion. From her looks one could tell that she was in her late sixties, though there was no gray hair on her head, as she never allowed it to show. She had been married twice and was now a widow.

Gramma Fanny was never too old to do anything though she had children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. She was a carpenter, builder, and farmer, designer business woman, and a lady. She made her own chairs, tables and benches. She made her own outside bathroom with wood and zinc. She nailed it firmly with her own hammer. Her bathroom never showed a crack.

She had a farm near her village that she went to all the time, but she planted a little garden in her yard in our neighborhood, in Kakata. She grew potato greens, eddoes, beans, and different kinds of herbs. She had herbs for coughs, open mole, measles, and worms.

Gramma Fanny was not just a designer; she was a chief designer in the neighborhood. “I make plenty money from my designs,” she would say with a smile as we passed by and saw her, busy at work with her needle and thread. She was also a small scale business trader, selling charcoal, farina, sugar, palm kernel oil, and other goods.

No radio station could compete with Grandmother Fanny. I always passed by her house from work and had never seen her quiet. In fact, whenever she heard footsteps approaching, she would intensify her talking so that whoever was coming would be lured to join in. She knew all of the history of the land. She made no distinction in her friendships between boys and girls and older people.

One morning, I stopped by to buy some palm kernel oil. I greeted her, “Good morning Gramma Fanny. How are you?”

“Fine dear. Thank God we see the day.”

“I want buy some palm kernel oil. How much you sell it?”

“Fifteen Liberian dollars per schnapps.”

“Alright, I need one.”

“Is it you whose wedding we were celebrating here last year?”

“Yes Gramma Fanny.”

“Where is your husband now?”

“He traveled to America.”

“America! That is good. I have my sons overseas there too. Every month they send me money. Imagine those children can send me one thousand United States dollars! Five hundred dollars!”

“That is very good. Your children are doing very well for you gramma,” I said, as she handed me the oil. I then waited intentionally, because I could see she wasn’t finished talking.

“My palm kernel oil is very good. I don’t mix it like some people. I burn the kernel, put it in the pot, cover it, and when it burns, I pour the oil into the bowl or pan and let it cool. My oil drives away witches and wizards. It heals worms and fevers. Just give your child a teaspoon full and you will see. Do you have a child?”

“No gramma, not yet.”

“What do you want the oil for?”

“To eat with my dry rice.”

“That alone is good like that. It will clean the stomach.”

While she was talking, a woman walked up to her. They spoke Bassa. Another woman came and spoke Mandingo. A man came by and spoke Kpelle. The second man came and spoke Mano. Then the third man came who spoke Gio. Another woman came and spoke in Kru, while another woman came and they spoke in Grebo. Some young men passed speaking French. Gramma Fanny interrupted, “Bonjour!”

I laughed. “You speak a lot of languages, gramma.”

“Of course I do,” she said boastfully, “what about you?”

“I can tell the difference but I don’t really speak any dialect good.”

“For me, nobody can cheat me in any Liberian dialect!” She waved to someone passing on the road, then she turned back to me. “During my days ma chile, I enjoy. My days were not like yours today - full of hell!”

“Why do you think our days are so, gramma?”

“My daughter, you don’t know?” Her face showed amazement. “The rudeness, disrespect, fullness, the wickedness! My daughter, we can’t talk all. Were you here during the war?”

“I was here but I left on the first ship for Ghana. I went on the ship Tano.”

“I see. That is the time the first ECOMOG soldiers arrived. You did not see anything my child. We were here. We saw terrible things. I mean terrible! Now tell me, can a generation like this be blessed?”

“We hear, and we see—”

“As I was telling you before, my friends and I used to dance before the president.” She smiled showing the action. “Whenever a visiting president came to the airport, we went to meet him. One time president Toure came to visit President Tubman. My dancing troupe was there at the airport to welcome president Toure. I held president Toure at my left with President Tubman at my right with my country tie-dye lappa neat on me, and my gold chain lying on my stomach rocking while I danced with two presidents.” She laughed hysterically performing the dance for me.

“Do you mean what you are saying gramma?”

“Why you asking me that question? You think I’m lying? I had all those historical pictures but the war took them.”

A woman selling fish woman passed by. “How much do you sell your fish?” Gramma Fanny asked her.

“Twenty Liberian dollars,” the woman replied.

“I have United States dollars. You have change?”

“What kind of question you asking me? You wan’ make fun out of me?” The fish woman was angry.

“I don’t think you mean business,” Gramma Fanny retorted.

“Do not insult me yah! If seriously you wanted the fish, you would change your money. Liar old ma!”

“Who is liar?” Gramma Fanny asked, as if ready to fight.

“You!” responded the woman.

“You are poor that is why you are selling dry rice medicine!”

“Me, poor?” the fish woman was wroth. Gramma Fanny and the fish woman got into a tense argument. I tried to quiet them down but they went on fussing.. Then a fufu woman came on the scene and greeted the fish woman. From the way they talked, you could tell that they were related. The fufu woman turned to Gramma Fanny, “My friend, do you still want the fish?”

“Of course, I want it, but the woman insulted me.”

“Never mind my friend. If you still want the fish, I can change the money.”

“My money, for just twenty Liberian dollars?”

The fufu woman left in disgust, while Gramma Fanny waved to a lady across the road. The fish woman walked away frowning.

When the women left, she turned to me, “Is it because of twenty Liberian dollars that I should change my money for?”

“Not at all, gramma,” I said.

“Not at all, dear,” she smiled rascally. “Have you heard that war is just here in Kakata?

“No gramma, I don’t think that’s true.”

“What! It not true? This news?”

“That news not true.”

“I heard it over air myself!”

“By radio?”

“Heh, some people even came here today who told me the same thing.”

I picked up my bottle and started off. ‘I’m reaching home, gramma.”

She continued talking. Her words chased me. That is why I went back to see her the next day after work. She was still talking. I knew she was lonely and getting old.