My own African Mother

While browsing the internet recently, I stumbled upon memes about African mothers, and to my amusement, nearly every featured picture perfectly encapsulated my own mother. It was quite a humorous coincidence!

African mothers have a distinctive knack for going above and beyond, and they possess a unique ability to rein in unruly children in ways that can be downright comical. However, when you combine this innate “extra” nature with their roles as religious mothers, you’re in for a double dose of their dramatic tendencies. It’s a truly unique and entertaining experience.

African mothers, by and large, tend to be quite strict, always pushing their offspring to be not just useful but successful in every way. It’s rare for a child to outgrow their watchful eyes and guidance, and they’re usually determined to chart their children’s paths for as long as their energy allows.

They may often be somewhat unaware of modern issues and trends more common in the Western world, in contrast to their profound spiritual beliefs, even if some of them may not be scientifically plausible. This is why, for example, my mother believed the improbable claim that a snake had swallowed thirty-six million Naira, as alleged by a staff member of a National Examination Board a few years ago.

In a sarcastic tone, I once asked my mom about the specific species of snake that could have pulled off such a feat. To my surprise, she responded with genuine innocence:

“A spiritual snake”

I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. With a chuckle, I added:

“Scientists had better add the word spiritual to one of the breeds of snakes that exists”.

 

With a hint of amusement, she quickly interjected, sensing my sarcasm, saying, “I’m not suggesting that the Examination Board Staff’s claim is true, but it’s theoretically possible for a spiritual snake from the spiritual realm to be dispatched to devour money or commit other misdeeds.” Her statement instantly brought to mind the comedic character of Madea in Tyler Perry’s movies, who often embodies the essence of many Black moms.

In the end, it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a child to win an argument against their African mother. So, no objections are allowed.

Reflecting back, I recall a time when my mother slapped me in the middle of a church service, even when I was in my mid-twenties.

Her reason?

 

One day, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath when my mother scolded me for dozing off during a prayer session at church. She promptly defended her actions by saying she wouldn’t raise an ungodly and defiant child who murmurs when she scolds. To my surprise, she continued to recount this incident to anyone who would listen for months, insisting that I had once embarrassed her in front of the entire church. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who humiliated whom?”

Then there’s the unforgettable incident from 2003 when my mom went on a beating spree. My friend, Adamma Okechukwu, and I were both in our late teens and pre-degree students at Olabisi Onabanjo University in Ago-Iwoye.

We were reveling in the excitement of being newly admitted to the university, and Ada and I were constantly “mixing up,” as they say. Even though my mother’s frequent, unannounced visits kept my school activities in check, I managed to find ways to navigate around them.

The big day finally arrived, and we were completely unaware that our other roommate, who had traveled to Lagos the previous week, had narrated an elaborate story about us keeping late nights and supposedly “hanging out with boys.” As absurd as that sounded, my mother traveled all the way from Lagos, where we resided, to Ago-Iwoye. She arrived at our hostel around 6 pm, and it seemed as if the stars had aligned to ensure we faced a good flogging. To make matters worse, she found our room empty, and we didn’t return home until three hours later.

The moment I walked into my room and saw my mom seated there with a stern expression, arms crossed over her chest and legs restlessly shaking, I knew I was in for a major confrontation. Ada, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware of the brewing storm until my mom grabbed her by the ears, screaming in pidgin English:

“Tell your mama and papa to come and meet me for Lagos say I beat their pikin say he wan spoil for school” (Tell your parents to meet me in Lagos, and that I flogged you for misbehaving in school).

For what felt like an eternity, my mom alternated between disciplining me and Ada as we darted around the locked room. I can’t even begin to describe the endless teasing and jokes from friends that followed for a long time after this incident.

My mother is a remarkable woman. Despite spending more than three decades of her life in Lagos, she has steadfastly clung to her pure Osun dialect. She deliberately resisted the pull of modernization when it came to raising her child and her choice of language. This is why I can speak Osun as fluently as if I had never set foot in a formal educational institution.

Honestly, my mom could have easily passed for a Jewish woman. She braved the labor room four painful times, with only me to show for it. However, I was never coddled. Instead, I seemed to pay for the transgressions of my late siblings by being a quartet rolled into one.

For as long as I can remember, and even to this day, the response I receive whenever I make a mistake is a consistent, “o stupid ni” (you’re just being stupid). It’s almost like an automatic reply. It doesn’t matter if we’re in a crowded stadium or somewhere with few onlookers, that’s the refrain I’ve become accustomed to. If not, there’s no guarantee of peace.

I must admit, I strongly dislike accompanying my mother to the market for shopping.

My mother is a master bargainer who seems to relish the disapproving groans that arise from the fervent market women whenever she haggles over their goods. She remains steadfast, unwavering in her stance, and my heart often skips a beat at her confidence. In the end, they reach a compromise, and purchases are made. It’s like a contest of African Mother versus another African Mother, and it’s best to observe in silence.

Even after I crossed into my twenties, she refused to let me take a seat when we traveled on public transport, which we colloquially call “lapping.” My petite stature didn’t help my case, and I eventually stopped attending events with her. She also had some stringent rules that I had to obediently follow, including:

• No chewing of gum because only prostitutes do that (at least that’s what she believed).
• No wearing of dresses or skirts above knee length.
• No male visitors. I attended an all-female high school, and now she wants a son-in-law. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll have to download one like an app.

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My mother had a long list of rules that seemed to have no end. It often made me wish there was a “911” I could call, just like my counterparts in developed countries. Some of her rules included:

• No coming back home later than 6 pm, or I’d face severe consequences.
• No interrupting adults when they were engaged in a conversation.
• I must cross my legs when sitting, as that’s the proper way to sit like a lady.
• I was compelled to save money in my piggy bank, or I’d be denied future allowances. Although it was challenging, it turned out to be quite beneficial as an adult.
• If I ever uttered a word when I was being disciplined, I’d be in even more trouble. The neighbors shouldn’t be aware of my predicament.

The list seemed never-ending, and I often wondered if my mom’s commandments were longer than the Ten Commandments.

 

On a more personal note, I would like to celebrate my mother today on the occasion of her birthday. She is my disciplinarian, caregiver, and heroine, and she is also a devoted prayer warrior.

Happy Birthday to my very special Mother.

 

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