As you can imagine, when we finally broached the subject, we were entering uncharted waters. She accused me of hating her for abandoning me. She had been faced with an impossible decision, leaving some of her children behind to save another one in danger. How could I understand? I wasn’t a mother.

Looking back, I understood that my mother had been through a physically and psychologically painful experience. She had lost her husband, her eldest child was in peril, she was penniless. On returning to Guinea, she suffered physical abuse – even having her leg broken – at the hands of members of my father’s family who had never accepted her.

As difficult as it had been to come to terms with her decision, I had made my peace with history. But still, I wanted her to see things from my perspective. I insisted that she must understand what I had suffered because of her choices. The night ended with me storming away. She begged me to stay but I left anyway, slamming the door on my way out.

A few weeks later, back in London, I received a message from my niece in the middle of the day. ‘Aunty, Grandma is not OK’ it read. I replied ‘You know Grandma sometimes exaggerates, looking for attention. Just hug her and she will calm down.’ As it turned out, my mother had complained to the neighbours of feeling unwell. When they went over to check on her she wouldn’t answer the door. The police found her on the floor unconscious. She would remain in a coma for six weeks before passing away.