What would you do with 90 years? 

Memories of my Grandmother. 

Recently, I reflected on life before 30 in a blog about making the most of your 20s. It was a look back on my own journey and hopes for the decade ahead.

As I pondered these milestones, my grandmother, Scholastica Chiutsi, quietly lived her last days at 90. Six days before her 91st birthday, I woke up to the news of her passing. Though I was heartbroken at first, I soon realized her life was one to be celebrated.

Looking back, there’s so much to say about my grandmother. “What would you do with 90 years?” In her case, she lived, nurtured, and built a community. She didn’t just witness life she shaped it.

For now, I’ll set aside the family tree and the sprawling stories of the village she helped grow. Instead, I’ll focus on the moments I spent with her, moments that continue to inspire me.

At a tender age, around 4 to 7 years old, I had the privilege of growing up with my grandparents in the village in Mchinji.  Like many who grew up with their grandparents, I enjoyed the perks that came with it. In my case, I was my grandmother’s favorite. At first, I didn’t understand why, but over time, it became clear. I was the only image left of her daughter.  Refer to my blog, The Story of the Blessed Child where I shared how My mother passed away just two months after giving birth to me.

There are parts of my life story that might sound too good to be true, almost like a vivid animation. Many of those moments were spent with this incredible woman, whose love and presence shaped so much of who I am today.

Just yesterday, I found myself craving nsima, so I cooked it for myself and my housemates. They loved it, and as we ate, I couldn’t help but brag about my grandmother. “Ine nsima andiphunzitsa kuphika ndi agogo anga,” I said proudly.

My grandmother was strict about how her nsima and cooking came out in general. “Nsima yotchakuka bwino simata manja,” she’d say. If it didn’t meet her high standards, she’d give her famous verdict: “Ya lero nde yaphonya moto pang’ono. Next time, let it sit on the fire a little longer.” As I watched my housemates enjoy the nsima, I smiled, knowing I’d learned from the best.

Cooking is just one of the many things my grandmother taught me to do perfectly. Name any local dish, best believe I can cook it. She was, without a doubt, my master chef.

I had the privilege of witnessing true love that lasts a lifetime through my grandparents. Their relationship was a living testament to love and loyalty in action.

My grandpa was a farmer, and his daily routine started early around 4 or 5 a.m. with kudimba and then heading to the fields. He’d return home around 1 or 2 p.m. with assorted items kudimba would give both food (maungu,zipwete , mbewa mkati) and other things. without fail, my grandmother ensured his table was set before he arrived. She’d sit and watch him eat, casually tossing in questions to check in on him.

On days he wasn’t in the field, Grandpa was either tending to the pigs, chickens, ducks we had at home, fixing something around the house, or attending a church meeting. Meanwhile, Grandma’s day revolved around caring for everyone: getting me ready for school, cleaning the house, preparing meals, and always ensuring everything was in order for her husband.

She served her husband with a devotion I’ve rarely seen, always making sure he was ready to go and welcoming him back when he returned. I still remember the evenings when Grandpa took longer than usual to come home. Grandma and I would stay up listening to the radio, waiting together, refusing to go to bed until mdala was back safe.(they were no phones back then to quickly call and ask where are you now)

Their love was in the small, consistent acts of care and loyalty, a bond that taught me what it truly means to be there for someone, every single day. 

Speaking of getting me ready for school, my grandma would prepare the most delicious porridge. On days when we had a little extra money, she’d slip me one of those five-kwacha notes and say, “Ukadyele iyi, mwana wanga.” Even though such gestures would sometimes stretch the household finances, her priority was always my happiness.

As I grew older, I started helping out more around the house. I learned how to tend to the livestock, which eased some of my grandpa’s workload. Before leaving for school, I’d draw water for my grandma from the water pump (chidilawo), making her day a little easier.

Back then, we didn’t have taps at home. Drinking and cooking water came from the pump, while water for other activities came from the borehole (chitsime) we had on the property. Looking back, these chores weren’t just tasks they were lessons in responsibility and love, ways to give back to the people who had given me so much.

Eventually, I started accompanying mdala to the dimba on some days. It became part of my growth, and these small but meaningful activities brought so much joy to my grandma.

I can still vividly remember the days when she had visitors. I would unknowingly become the center of attention as she proudly boasted about me to everyone. She’d talk about all the little things I was doing.

Her pride in me was both humbling and motivating. It reminded me that even the smallest efforts mattered to someone who had given me so much love and care. Those moments taught me the power of encouragement and how much it means to have someone believe in you.  

Fast forward to better days, though I’ve skipped a lot in between.

Living with Grandma as a grown adult was nothing like the carefree days of childhood!

This woman wanted to know everything about my plans: where I was going, what I’d be doing, and who I’d be with. From a young man’s perspective, it felt a bit much. But looking back, I realize this was her way of showing care and staying involved in my life.

Every time I stepped out, the conversation would start the same way:

Her: “Mupita kuti, Nkhoma?”

Me: “Town.”

Her: “Town mwake kuti?”

Me: “Ku BICC.”

Her: “Kuli chani?”

Me: “ABC.”

Her: “Aah, okay. Mundiguliko ginger (meaning Fanta wa ginger) pobwera.”

Me: “Okay, byee!”

What seemed like policing back then was really her way of staying connected and learning. My grandma was naturally curious and loved gathering knowledge, and the only way she did that was through endless questions and answers. 

One of our last phone conversations was the same familiar one we’d had countless times over the past five years. She asked, “Ati mwapeza nzungu kumeneko, Yudeya? Bweletseni zamuone ine?” She was eager to see my future wife, and this question never failed to come up.

One time, I brought a girlfriend to meet her. Best believe, Grandma gave her a full analysis after she left. “Ine ayi, openta zala. Nchocho manja amene aja angakweche mapoto ,” she said humorously.

A few months later, because that girlfriend had stuck around long enough to chat with Grandma now and then, they eventually became friends. But when things ended between us, Grandma didn’t let it slide. She would always mock me , “Openta zala aja alikuti? Sabweranso bwanji?”

Her curiosity and humor about my relationships were unmatched.

As part of her 90th celebration, I decided to take Grandma on a drive through Lilongwe. She’d spent years grounded at home, and I wanted her to see how the city had changed.

My heart melted watching her pop her head through the car window, amazed at the new Lilongwe. Compared to the one she remembered from 10 or 15 years ago, this was a whole different place for her.  As we drove through, you can guess what came next, a flood of questions for me to answer.

We later stopped for lunch at a food place in town. Unfortunately, they didn’t have her favorite ginger Fanta. When they brought a sprite instead, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Fanta ndalama zingati?” I told her it was K1,500. Her jaw dropped. “Aah, Fanta mpaka sauzande?”

When the food came, Malawi’s classic “chips and chicken” she looked at the plate and asked, “Chakudyacho ndichichi?” I couldn’t stop laughing. Grandma was genuinely the funniest person.

We can’t end this without talking about her faith in God. My grandmother was a devoted Catholic, and as she grew older and faced mobility challenges, she found comfort in listening to Radio Maria 24/7. Her devotion never wavered. it was a normal sight bumping into her in her room praying every day.

Once or twice a month, the local church would host Masses at our home for her. I became so accustomed to the Catholic hymns and prayers because of her. 

We would always have lively debates about religion, especially about Pentecostals.“Tchalitchi padziko lapansi ndi chimodzi, katolika basi, zina zonsezi aaaah za china.” She would urge.

Her faith was a constant in her life, and even in her debates, there was a deep love and commitment to God. That unwavering devotion, her spiritual strength, and her belief in the power of prayer are all part of the legacy she leaves behind.

Looking back now, I see so much of her in me, from her Faith and humor to her curiosity and her caring heart.

One of my favorite last moments was when I sent her a good amount of money. She was completely star-struck with happiness and said over the phone, “Nde ndizitani nazo ine vindalama vonsevi?” That joy in her voice was everything.

Best believe, my grandma and I lived for each other. She wasn’t just my grandmother; she was my best friend. This is why I choose to celebrate her life, a life well-lived, full of love, laughter, and countless lessons.

Sleep well, my dear friend