"I call every day. But I can't be there every day."
You came to this country with a plan. Work hard. Build a life. Give your children everything your parents gave you — and more. And for a long time, it worked. You have a career, a mortgage, children of your own. A life you're proud of.
But somewhere in the middle of all of it, your mother got older. And your father. And now there's a phone call every evening that leaves you with a feeling you can't quite name. Not worry exactly. Guilt, maybe. Or grief — but for someone who's still here.
She doesn't complain. That's the thing. She never has. She just says "I'm fine, don't worry about me" — in Yoruba, in Twi, in the language that still feels like home to her even though she's been in this country for thirty years. She watches Nigerian TV series. She cooks the same jollof every Sunday. She has a church she loves. But the rest of the week stretches out in ways she won't tell you about.
"She asks the same questions twice now. Not because she's forgotten — because there's no one to talk to."
The hardest part isn't the distance. It's knowing that the thing your mother needs — real conversation, someone who gets the references, who doesn't look confused when she mentions home — is the one thing you can't fully provide from three tube stops away, working full time, raising your own family.
You've looked at care agencies. But she doesn't need care. She's sharp. She's independent. She just needs someone to sit with. Someone who can talk to her about the old neighbourhoods, who knows what chin chin tastes like at Christmas, who won't make her feel like a patient.
That's what Sawubona is. Not a care service. Not a clinical solution. A real person — someone from her world — who shows up at her door, twice a week, and simply spends time with her. So she has something to tell you about when you call. So you can stop dreading that you're not doing enough.
You're not failing her. You're here. And now, so is Sawubona.
"I call every Sunday. But every Sunday I hang up feeling like it wasn't enough."
You came to this country with your father's voice in your head. Work hard. Make something of yourself. Honour what he sacrificed so you could be here. And you did. You have a career, a house, children of your own. You've built exactly what he wanted for you.
But somewhere along the way, your father got older. And now Sunday mornings end with a phone call that leaves you sitting quietly for a while after you put it down. He sounds fine. He always sounds fine. That's the problem.
He came to England in 1981. He worked for forty years — long shifts, early mornings, always the first in, last out. He built his life here the Ghanaian way: quietly, diligently, without complaint. Now he's retired. The routine that defined him is gone. His hometown association meets once a month. Church on Sundays. The rest of the week, the flat is very quiet.
"He used to have opinions about everything. Now he just says he's managing. That word — managing — is what keeps me up at night."
He watches GTV on his tablet. He still makes kelewele on a Friday, the whole flat smelling exactly like Kumasi in 1975. He has his faith, his few old friends. But they're scattered now — some moved back home, some in care homes, some gone. The men from that era don't talk about loneliness. They manage.
You've looked at options. Care agencies feel wrong — he doesn't need care, and he'd find it insulting if you suggested it. What he needs is someone who speaks Twi without switching to English halfway through. Someone who remembers what Ghana was before everything changed. Someone who can sit with him and have a real conversation — not an appointment.
That's what Sawubona is. Not a care service. Not a clinical solution. A real person from his world — who shows up at his door, twice a week, and simply spends time with him. So he has something to tell you about when you call on Sunday. So that word — managing — becomes something better.
You're not failing him. You're here. And now, so is Sawubona.
