Wonder Woman
Self-ish prompt: What does Feminism mean to you?
Feminism, what does it mean to me? A part of me feels this prompt isn’t really for me. Not that I wouldn’t have anything meaningful to say. After all, I’ve studied my fair share of the literature on Feminism — from Simeone de Beauvoir to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. As a language and communication enthusiast, I’ve explored the circumstances which mothered those ancient biases that still pervade even the most radical feminists’ use of language. But what does feminism mean to me, the last of six children — all boys? The answer to this has just a bit to do with all the literature I’ve read, and almost everything to do with the woman I call Mama.
Mama.
When everyone sways one way because it’s convenient, she sways the other way because it’s right. When kalé-kalé keeps fearful souls indoors on Sunday mornings, she speaks her way past uniformed faces. When she gets what she wants, she gets it because she’s worked for it; not because she’s a woman.
She’s such a woman.
A woman whose culinary preferences remain conservative; country onion doesn’t find its way into her pounded potatoes. A woman who’s finally gotten a hang of the selfie thing, but not the “Update WhatsApp” thing. A woman who mixes her rice and stew before eating, who loves God and her family with a passion. A strong woman. When I stumbled across an old black-and-white picture of young Mama in what was clearly a miniskirt, she told me the garment failed to come off half as easily as today’s tightly belted jeans do.
She is that woman whose very slightly curved fingertips announce (to the trained eye) years of volley balling; that woman who is sure her opinion would compete healthily in the marketplace of ideas; that woman who worries once about her welfare and twice about everyone else’s.
Mama is the woman at whom I occasionally get mad. I mean, when a person retires after serving her country for decades, one will expect her to rest. Not necessarily idle, but at least rest a little more. Not Mama oh! Ehmm, there’s this former neighbor whose younger brother was admitted at that other hospital, I have to check on him; that other woman for whose aunt’s funeral I went last week has returned home, I need to go harvest some sweet yams and cook for her; I need to go counsel and pray with Mami So-and-So’s son, he tells me he’s facing some difficulties.
She is that woman whose unwritten name is spelled E-M-P-A-T-H-Y.
Mama is such a woman. A woman who loves her man, sticks to him, sticks with him, lifts him, buoys him. When the government’s dysfunctionality rocked the financial foundations of our home, she dug in; she dug deep; she dug wide.
That’s Mama; a woman whose virtue fuels my hope that goodness is attainable.
So, how did the prompt “What does feminism mean to you?” lead to this reflection on Mama? I’m not quite sure. However, I’m sure of something. It’s this: if all humans were Mama, the world wouldn’t be perfect, but it’ll draw ever closer to perfection. That, to me, is what feminism should be; a wholesome attempt to attain the loftiest of lofty ideals; perfection.
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