Bibi. Bibi yangu. My Grandmother. Her Tree. Bibi’s tree is yet to be a tree . . . but it is a tree to me. A plant that is supposed to reach her God. A plant that we water, so it grows. A plant that we pray over hoping it protects her. Even if it never reaches even two ft tall. It is a tree to me. The word plant isn’t enough. A plant is so fragile. A plant is not worth the faith we have in its protection. A plant will whither. While a tree will thrive. A tree will keep growing towards her God. A tree will surpass the limits of the grave it's planted in. A tree signifies my Bibi much more than any plant could. My Bibi’s name was Salma. Peace. Her name, just like her tree, means peace. Means safety. Means security. When I think of her tree, that is what her tree is to me.
MiC Columnist Iman Jamison can be reached at ijamison@umich.edu.