Nah

The kitchen always carried the aroma of corn tortillas in the early mornings. My Nah would be there, hands busy kneading masa and coaxing fire from bits of cloth or cardboard. The smoke would jolt me awake and make it hard to stay in bed. So, as a kid, I'd find myself up before the sun, sitting on a plain wooden chair in the kitchen with my feet dangling, unable to touch the floor. I’d sit there, captivated by the sight before me, my eyes glued to the pair of hands, rough with years of labor yet possessing a surprising delicateness. Those hands expertly worked the masa on a crinkly plastic bag repurposed from its grocery days to create corn tortillas. 

With a grace that never failed to amaze me, Nah’s hands would place the tortillas on the hot comal then flip them twice until they transformed from pale white to golden brown. Each tortilla was then pressed down and flipped again—a ritual that felt as sacred as any. Once perfect, the tortilla landed on a soft cloth reserved solely for this purpose. The cloth, now holding a stack of warm, freshly made tortillas, emitted a comforting scent of corn and fire. A ritual that marked the beginning of my day.  

Nah nurtured me with simple corn tortillas, an everyday meal that never lost its appeal in my eyes. Perhaps the appeal stemmed from their frequency: they were essential to my life. Being presented with those tortillas and a soft nuzzle into my cheek was a simple yet profound moment that captured a world of emotions. 

There were times when corn tortillas were all we had. On such austere occasions, Nah would search for every five or one cent and brave the scorching sun to walk to the neighborhood store. She would return triumphant, bearing four small, precious packs of cheese chips—a luxury that brought as much excitement as receiving a new bicycle. I would watch as Nah wrap some of the chips into a corn tortilla, folding it into a burrito. One for her, the rest for me. I would offer her half of my share, only for her to decline it with a gentle smile. But I knew deep down that one was not enough for her. After we ate, I would fall asleep in Nah’s arms, and she would hold me for hours. I'd wake occasionally to find myself still being held and Nah’s arms slightly shaking under my weight.  

As I got older, I couldn't just sit and watch anymore. Learning to make corn tortillas was a symbol of growing up—a reality check that I was no longer a kid. It signaled that I was becoming a woman, which was a daunting thought, considering the weight of tradition surrounding this skill. At that time, in my early teens, learning such things wasn't just about personal growth; it was usually tied to expectations about marriage and womanhood. Fortunately, my path wasn't dictated solely by these traditions. Nah emphasized the importance of independence and book learning, regardless of those expectations. 

So, I observed her hands closely, absorbing the steps they took—preparing the corn, kneading the masa, and skillfully flipping the tortillas on the hot comal. 

My attempts to copy her were always hopeless. The heat from the fire hearth threatening my skin and the smoke strangling my breath. But when Nah approached the fire, it seemed to recognize her and responded calmly and obediently as she placed her tortillas on the smooth, hot griddle. "Ma saktal tih ka'ak neh" (Don't be scared of fire), she would say as she urged me to scrutinize her every move. Yet, this connection between my Nah and the fire remained a mystery to me. 

I never quite got the hang of making corn tortillas like my Nah did. Eventually, I gave up trying. It wasn't fun. It seemed more like a tiresome chore than a desirable skill. I couldn't fathom why Nah made them every day without fail. It seemed like such a tough task to tackle day in and day out. 

Time passed, and Nah continued making those tortillas until she couldn't anymore. I vividly recall when she fell ill. It was mid-December, and I was 17. Her illness progressed rapidly to being bedridden and losing her ability to speak. It hit me hard. In those weeks, I faced the harsh reality that she might not recover. Her last words urged me to look after my mom and sister. 

Two days before Christmas, she passed away. I walked into her kitchen, my mind flooded with memories of watching Nah make tortillas. And the realization hit me: I would never see her do it again. I carry that regret every day. I wish I had embraced her teaching when I had the chance. 

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Shanti Oh is an English major at the University of Belize. She resides in Belmopan and has a passion for reading and listening to music, Taylor being her favorite artist.