Our Commander-in-Chief: Remembering Mama Isa, the Woman Who Always Saw Far

The highlights of this tribute were first shared at her funeral on Friday, 11th September 2026, at St. Martin’s Parish, Blackhall Road, Freetown.

If you know me well, you already know that I was completely obsessed with my Grandma. She unapologetically let everyone know that I was her absolute favourite. Just a few days before she passed, she sang to me. I am deeply grateful to my Mama, my aunties, uncles, and older cousins for giving me the privilege of delivering this eulogy. I am so incredibly thankful that I never hesitated to give her flowers while she could still smell them.

Isa T, as I fondly called her in her later years, was an ICON in her own right.

Let us start from the beginning.

Mama Isa was a master storyteller. She would weave stories for us grandchildren across the fire, from Rokupr district to Byrne Lane, oceans away in the UK, and in every African city that held her kindred. From Bra Spider to Cunny Rabbit, Mamoudu Tonko, and mystic animals, she told tales from the past that were filled with heart and soul. Some had harsh endings, some were frightening, but all carried a moral. How she managed to tell these stories with such vibrant spirit through every passing decade remains a beautiful mystery to me. But now you know exactly where I picked up my own knack for storytelling.

As I grew older, I discovered that some of her bravest stories were actually her lived experiences. That was how our true love story began. When she spoke of gold in her tales, it was not just fiction. My fullahmusu had lived it, even trading in gold at one point, inheriting raw gold, wearing obscene amounts of gold and silver jewellry, and designing exquisite pieces with jewellers across Sierra Leone and the United Kingdom.

My grandmother was beautiful, a fact she never missed an opportunity to amplify. She was an exquisite paradox: deeply vain, yet entirely unassuming; fiercely loving herself, yet ready to give everything she had to others. Isa T was a true giver and a deep empath.

Our trips to “town” meant a whole day of wandering without a list, fueled only by an endless love for adventure, banter, and camaraderie. Every seller had a name. She would know if Mami Fatu’s daughter was having marriage trouble, and they would discuss it at length while I lingered behind with a frown, a frown she would instantly undo with her sharp eyes. Her heart knew no boundaries. On one of those town days, a young pregnant lady fainted at Salad Gron. Without hesitation, Grandma opted to whisk her straight to PCMH Hospital.

For many years, my grandparents lived with us. She was incredibly fond of my Papa, and they agreed on almost everything, except for her unbridled generosity and the endless stream of daily visitors. Nicknamed “Kitchen Debul” by some, Grandma sibi play han, she could cook up a storm. Her Jollof rice could literally divert a bomb and automatically win the Jollof wars across Africa. That deep love for feeding people meant our home was full from breakfast until supper. And if people were not coming to the house, it meant huge amounts of food packed into her popular “Shine Pan” aluminum sets and Pyrex dishes, floating in all directions from Fula Tong to Goderich. She was a true foodie.

“Mi Grani, min lek Man!” I would often tease her. She would sharply correct me: “Nor, r nor lek Man, r lek me Man.”

I don’t know if her path with my late Grandpa, a pioneering agriculturist, influenced her, but she was his perfect match. Grandma was a fierce nurturer and an incredibly industrious woman. She raised cattle, rescued wild birds, and even nursed a young lion cub back to life. She was utterly fearless. I will never forget the dramatic dawn when, under the glow of a kerosene lamp, she helped a cow through breech labour bare-handed right in front of me.

She raised dozens of children, many of whom are in this room today. She gave her time, her treasure, and her kindness without limits. Even just a few months ago, this woman who had given birth to eight children, surviving a radical Caesarean section in the 1950s and once delivering a baby on the stairs with only her dog beside her, scolded me about why I had not had another child yet!

But Grandma was not only a fierce nurturer. She was deeply intuitive, especially when it came to me.

As a teenager, Grandma would be the first person to know if a boy was interested in me. Somehow, she always knew. She could read people in a way that I often did not understand until much later. And, perhaps more importantly, she taught me very early that I should never sell myself short.

There is one story that still makes me laugh.

While we were in The Gambia, I had two young adults chasing the sweet 17. Grandma visited, and she instantly liked one of them. She found all sorts of cunningly smart ways to get me to see why he was the one. When I did not budge, she pulled her favourite card: “Ariana, are day see far.” Then came the final blow: “I would be very disappointed if you go against my wishes.”

I still did not budge.

Decades later, I now know what she saw in that young man that I was completely unable to see at the time. She was deeply intuitive. Grandma had a way of reading people, situations and possibilities far beyond what was immediately visible. Sometimes she knew things before the rest of us had caught up. It was one of those qualities that made her both fascinating and, occasionally, impossible to argue with!

Isa was also the ultimate fashionista. In 1961, while in London, she won a beauty contest within the Sierra Leonean community. That victory gave Isa T lifetime access to being the ultimate fashion police. Her style was regal. She believed whole-heartedly in the phenomenon of “yanga na pain.” When I was younger and would disagree, she would remind me that one must never be caught unfresh.

Grandma was also a massive Avon cosmetics fan. She would lather me with large amounts of “Topaze” perfumed powder before bed, and that is exactly how I picked up my own nighttime sensual routine. Until a few weeks before she transitioned, Grandma would coordinate her outfits and stack her rows of bangles and rings. One of our very last activities together this past April was a home spa day, a full “leisure curls” hair process, capped off with a pedicure in her favourite color, purple.

We constantly teased each other. I was never afraid to speak my mind with her because, heck yeah, she was blunt. She spoke truth to power, very often cussing and comforting you all in one breath. When she would say certain colourful words out loud, my Mama, being the strict schoolteacher, would register her disapproval. Grandma could not have cared less.

I am so happy she never lost her fire.

In an era where women were expected to fit into quiet stereotypes, she broke every single one of them, learning to drive and navigating a Land Cruiser across Sierra Leone to distribute goods, to beating breast cancer and surviving the complications of a double mastectomy.

This morning, I brewed my own tea and did some breathwork with essential oils. Isa did not use fancy terms like “naturopathy,” but in more ways than one, she introduced me to it. Grandma had a cure for everything, and it almost always came from the earth. One of my biggest regrets will always be not documenting every herb, process, and ointment she developed.

Grandma Isa was utterly fearless.

Let me tell you a quick story, I promise you would not regret it.

In the 90’s, we had armed robbers raiding our street. The neighbours were terrified, drawing up grand, complex security plans. Isa just called me aside, I was only a young girl then, and told me to bring an adult potty into our bedroom. Her instructions were clear: do not touch it.

Fast forward a couple of days. She gently woke me up in the middle of the night. I was arched against her chest, and she motioned for me to keep quiet. She crawled across the room. The next thing I heard were loud, agonizing screams.

That pee, which I now know acts as an ammonia weapon, had been hurled directly at the robbers as they were cutting through our security bars. That was the absolute last we ever heard of thievery in our neighborhood. The talk around town became, “Da Mami day get acid.” Our room was uninhabitable for a while, and the hard labour of cleaning it up pissed off the domestic staff way more than the victory Isa had won!

Two weeks before my world stopped, I paid Isa a visit. I was reassuring her of our grand plans for her 100th birthday, the custom 100-year wax cotton ashobi, a massive awujor feast, and a huge party. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I do not think so, Ariana. I am tired. It is time for me to leave.”

How many people do we know who get the chance to retreat with the peaceful knowing that they are ready to meet God?

Our family is incredibly blessed to have had the gift of her presence for 98 solid years. I truly believe that right now, she is singing along to her favourite hymns, having a big chuckle, and sharing a life lesson or two up there.

Our Commander-in-Chief is gone.

The strong, loving, and fiercely protective one.

We love you, Mama Isa, but God loves you best. Your race is over, and the battle is won.

Rest in power. May light perpetual shine upon you.

I will always love you.