Of a Sweet Mother, motherhood and me
mothering
“Sweet Mother, I will never forget you — all the suffering you suffered for me.” — Prince Nico Mbarga (song: Sweet Mother)
Mum’s melodies
The soundtrack of my early childhood, was a mixtape of African Highlife (a kind of predecessor to today’s AfroBeats) music, Folk (think Val Doonican singing Little Green Apples — and you’ve got it) and Pop.
There are many times that my siblings and I would ‘Get Down on It’ (Thank you Kool and the Gang *salutes*) all around the house, my mum too would join in occasionally and throw down a one, two step — with smooth understated swag.
As a Nigerian girl — now my mind just flashed straight to Michael Jacksons Liberian Girl, allow me to remix *clears throat* ‘Nigerian girl, you know that you came and you changed my world…’ haha, big tune! #sorrynotsorry — the song Sweet Mother, remains the number one anthem in celebration of motherhood.
Gosh, I miss her.
I recall spending a lot of time in the kitchen with my mum, chatting, chilling and cooking. The cooking was done under duress, myself and my sister were tasked to learn how to cook while my brothers got to wait to eat — ugh. I can’t bare to cook now, I still love to eat tho — so it’s a goal that one of these days when I’m financially on point, I will hire a personal chef (Dear Universe, I hope you hear me).
My earliest and most cherished memory, took place in the kitchen. I was maybe at the toddler stage, aka the terrible two’s — my mum was cooking away, and she had what we call ‘backed me’. In other words, she placed me on her back, then whilst hunched over — she secured me there by tying a wrapper (a large soft cloth cotton like material, with traditional African print — worn by both women and men as a cultural alternative to trousers or skirt) under and around me.
So there I was, snug as a baby kangaroo — with my chest and head pressed gently against her back. Where she went, I went — left and right and back again. Whilst she cooked and hummed, and sang sometimes. I remember feeling her breathing, and I would rise and fall with each breath — wave after wave, lulling me into a state of blissful serenity.
Mum had some sayings that she repeated often, ‘by God’s grace’ was one, ‘everybody needs peace of mind’ was another. In those moments, up close and personal with mum — I definitely felt peace of mind.
That time I thought I lost my little man
Becoming a mother, is like going back to school — except the lessons are all unfamiliar. I have a lot of questions, I’ve considered just keeping my hand permanently raised — but the arm ache is sufficiently off putting.
If you think you will get a diploma congratulating you on completing your course in motherhood — let me manage your expectations, you won’t.
I am now and forever, a student of Motherhood. I am constantly taking notes, constantly being schooled by Motherhood.
Let me share a mothering 101 pearl with you: If you have a small toddler like child in your care — and you take your eyes off them for a moment, they will make like magic — and vanish.
First time abroad with my then six year old and two and half year old son’s (yep, red flags blowing in the wind), was a five day trip to Barcelona. On our last full day (early morning flights always seem like a good idea, until you have to wake up sleepy kiddies *shakes head*)we went for a shop, something I had refrained from doing — but figured (prematurely), hey I survived the holiday without major incident, let’s buy me a little something.
I go to the desk to pay, my back is turned away from my kiddies momentarily — cue, my little man. I turn back around, ergh… ‘where’s Justy?’ I’m asking myself whilst looking at my six year old to my right, he shrugs his shoulders profusely. I look to my left, as I stare at the open shop door — panic builds ‘Justy!’
There are many times as a parent, you long for peace and quiet — this was not one of them, the wall of silence that met my call — was all at once deafening and distressing.
Picture the scene, I’m abroad, alone with my kiddies, I know nobody here, and now I can’t find my youngest son. #badtimes
I’m breathing pretty heavily now, running towards the door calling out ‘Justy’ over and over. There is a man and a woman stood just outside, ‘did you see a little boy come out here?’ I ask, they shake their heads no. I look left and right down the street, he couldn’t have got far — but which way? I’m back in the shop, calling out ‘Justy’, the shop assistant is looking all over the shop as is my eldest son. I make for the door again, I’m holding back a flood of tears now.
Then… ‘here he is!’ said the shop assistant, as he triumphantly revealed my little man hiding in a little concealed corner, a cubby space of a clothing/accessories freestanding storage unit. Little Justy climbs out, reappearing with a huge smile — full of pride.
I stare at him, all the while looking him over for any signs of injury. I am nothing but grateful because ‘by God’s grace’ — he was fine.
The shop assistant offers me a glass of water, I accept and drink it down with the quickness. I thank the assistant a thousand times, we leave the shop before further incident. I had just experienced, the longest (aprox) three minutes of my life.
Some moments later, I asked my little man ‘I know this was a game to you, but please tell me who won?’ He stares blankly as if to say ‘well, me — duh’. I stare back equally blankly, as if to say ‘duh — it was rhetorical.’
Pro tip to the kiddies: if the other participants don’t know they are participating — it ain’t a game.
Singing lullabies
I wonder what the soundtrack of my sons childhood will sound like when they eventually look back and listen, I hope they hear some sweet sounds in amongst the noise.
A while back, I heard an audio of The Champ Muhammad Ali — singing over the phone to his kids. It just so happened to be a fave song of mine too, I figured — if it’s good enough for the G. O. A. T….
I took to singing it to my kiddies at bedtime from time to time, it goes a little something like this:
“Each night before you go to bed, my baby, whisper a little prayer for me, my baby, and tell all the stars above — this is dedicated to the one I love.” — The Shirelles (song: Dedicated to the One I Love)
Disclaimer: This essay was inspired by the prompt ‘Mothers’ set by the Medium publication @P.S.I Love you (I don’t know why I can’t @ them), I was too chicken to submit *shrugs shoulders* — Thank you.
Update: Because the Medium writers community is so lit, esteemed writer Jack Preston King has kindly given me a heads up on who to @ at P.S.I Love you, so without further ado David Smooke … hope you accept my thanks to your Pubs team for the prompt that inspired this piece. P.S, i’d be pretty gassed if you gave it a read.Cheers muchly!
