My Fight Was Hers First: A Story of Sickle Cell, Strength, and a Mother’s Love

Jaja Fortuna
Jun 3
3 min read

There are stories etched into our bones before we can even speak.Mine? It begins with a woman who didn’t just carry me—she fought for me.

To say that my mother fought for my life is an understatement.

The Day It All Changed

It was 1987. I was nine months old, and we were living in the province of Malanje, Angola. I was crying uncontrollably—and my mother just knew something was wrong. She didn’t wait. She didn’t pause to overthink. She ran.

At the time, there was no transportation. But through God’s grace, a family friend appeared on the road and gave her and me a ride to the hospital. That act alone saved my life.

When I spoke with my mom recently about that day, she still got emotional. She cried remembering the man—Senhor João—who donated blood so I could receive my first transfusion. A selfless friend, moved by compassion. If not for that moment… this blog, this podcast, my life—none of it would exist.

Growing Up in Malanje

Malanje was my home, and even with sickle cell anemia, I have beautiful memories there. I remember walking with my older sister to visit my grandmother—Joana Kandengue. We’d pick mulberries from the bushes along the way. Some were red, others blackish-blue, and some a mix of both. My fingertips would be stained, and my heart full.

My grandma Joana wasn’t the only strong woman in my life. I also spent a lot of time with my mom’s sister—my “second mom.” These women, along with my mom, carried so much wisdom and care. I grew up surrounded by aunties, cousins, and siblings who loved me fiercely. When I say “it takes a village,” I mean it.

Their support is why I’m still standing today.

The Healing Wasn't Just Medical

When I got sick, my mom and grandmothers would prepare traditional remedies. One memory sticks with me: tiny cuts made on the top part of my hand—what I now know is the dorsal side—and a red herbal medicine rubbed into them. It was for pain and inflammation from my sickle cell. I still have some of the scars. To some, they may look like wounds. To me, they’re proof I was cared for deeply.

More recently, I learned I had a little brother on my biological dad’s side who passed away from sickle cell at a young age. That hit hard. And it made me all the more grateful for my mom—how she used every resource, every ounce of faith, every traditional practice and piece of wisdom she could find to keep me alive.

She Didn’t Baby Me—She Empowered Me

Despite everything, my mom never put limits on how far I could walk or how much I could explore. I know she worried. (I mean, cardio is not exactly friendly for sickle cell—I like to joke that I’m allergic to it!) But we walked for miles, and she never held me back. That freedom meant so much.

Her strength taught me something important: that love doesn’t always look like wrapping someone in bubble wrap. Sometimes it’s letting them walk, even when your heart is pounding. It’s letting them live.

A Tribute to Every Caregiver

Wherever you are reading this—I want you to know:

Your story matters.The pain. The survival. The joy. The journey—it all matters.

If you’re a caregiver—thank you. If you’re a survivor—I see you. And if you’ve ever felt alone in the fight—this space was created for you.

You’re not weak for needing others. You’re not dramatic for crying out.You are not a burden.You are a miracle. And you are worthy of every ounce of love and care.