From the time I moved from home to live in the West, I have observed both Mother's Day and Father's Day faithfully.
Surprisingly, I caught on pretty fast, considering the fact that the days are largely alien to Kenya and its people.
My rationalisation for the quick assimilation has been that the loneliness and realization that all the things my parents talked endlessly about as I half listened live with me. Perhaps I should have listened better but this sentimentalism should not, however, be read into as regret of my rebellious adolescent years. I still cherish them, for they largely contributed to who I am today.
I would like in celebration of this year's Mother's Day to pay tribute to the women who I have constantly interacted with in my life, each leaving their particular impressions on me. What I have made of these impressions, I am yet to understand as I am still analyzing each of them and the thoughts and ideas on life that they passed on to me. Here is the chronology:
My maternal grandmother. A devout Catholic, who still believes that having one's burial conducted by a priest is a clean pass to heaven. For every problem my grandmother encountered, she took it to the cross. She would not touch herbal medicine, for those were Lucifer’s concoctions. On each visit, we were loaded with aspirins, seven seas and all the stuff that keeps children healthy, the type that according to her, was godly.
I mention herbal medicine because her co-wife, on the contrary, was a walking herbal pharmacy. I sneaked off to hang out with her because her remedies were easy on my taste buds. For an aching ear, squeeze a knot of mimosa pudica in the ear, and voila! Fit as a fiddle in only 15 minutes. See, I did not have to swallow anything bitter, what can be better than that to a child? This woman was the most patient person and giving person I ever met-- even to a fault.
Enter my paternal grandmother. (Do not ask about my grandfathers, their wives outlived them. I only met one in his sunset days, dwindling health and senile, folding in readiness for the great ‘worm buffet’.) Granny Ro is a Star smoker, and hard whisky drinker. A petite woman, a child bride who bore 12 children to an iron fisted polygamist. This woman is a double talker, who knows what to say to whom, and when, but still does the right thing by everyone all the time. See, she would rile her son for marrying a "dumb" woman, who would not produce ‘smart’ children, and when the son eventually left his wife for his secretary, she stepped in and convinced the estranged wife to stay and raise her children. When I stayed with her, I asked her about her stand. She explainted thus, "The people who run with what I say without objectively thinking of the consequences must be very stupid. I am a rural widow, with only so many days to live. What I care for is more grandchildren. Period." At the end of the day, she still has her son, and daughter in-law liking her. But it does not stop here.
My grandmother at any given time supports 3 children in her village. She offers them a place to stay, free food, and coaxes her children into supporting the brighter ones. A good section of the village credit her for allowing them a chance to see a classroom, never mind that she was not herself formally educated. She has been blessed instead with an uncanny trait of following conversations and reading minds.
The woman who bore me is next. A woman of few words, a quiet observer, hitched to my old man at the tender age of 22, and supported by her husband through first nursing education, then later on, as a teacher so as to keep a handle of her husband's interests. Nursing, in her husband's opinion, took a lot from a person, living little time to engage in personal development.
You see, as a child, I did not think much of this woman. For one, the only person who seemed to provide financially for the family was my father. In addition, my siblings and I lived with him from an early age. Mother was a guest, who appeared 3 times a month or so, and during holidays she was this harsh woman we went to ‘tolerate’ in the second home.
While our father maintained a house-keeper and a houseboy, my mother sent all her housekeepers away as soon as we showed up at our second home. She had a daily roster of chores: mopping and dusting, laundry, making breakfast, and making sure our naughty brothers were behaving. Still, her ‘evil’ did not end there. Can you imagine that one very merry Christmas, as every child went running around ho-ho-hoing, we were all (even my six year old brother) sent to a rice field to harvest because the rice would go bad if left for another day. It was unusually hard work especially since most labourers were off for the holidays.
One can only imagine the fear and horror I had of my mother. This woman, my mother, would make you repeat dusting the house if dust clinged to her finger as she touched a window sill. I cannot say I hated her, but I found her strange. Strange because she was supposed to be my ‘mother’, but had all this rules and structure that daddy dearest had no time for.
When I was five, my mother would have me go along with her as she did her hospital rounds. See, I was responsible for sweeping and cleaning the out-patient equipment in the hospital. At night, I spent my days in one of the bunkers in the maternity wards. On some days, I would help pass ice-cream to the orphaned children at the ward next door. I do not know if I liked it, but I showed up every day.
My mother, she never yelled, or hit, the closest was, "My kid, this term your perfomace was not good." That did it. A woman of few words she was then and still is.
Back then in adolescence, full of ‘superwoman ideas’ fed to me by the other women who raised me, I clearly saw my mother as one who got the raw end of the deal. While my father had 3 cars at his disposal, she had none, and did not seem to mind. She never even bothered learning how to drive. Why would I want to be like this woman? Surely? At sixteen, and all the ‘greatness in me’ I felt that my mother was big joke.
Next are my paternal aunts. My loving aunts are very protective of me. My aunts, especially the younger ones, gave me whatever I wanted. I simply walked into a clothing store and picked out whatever pleased my eyes. If I expressed my dislike for baked potatoes and wanted to go back home, the house maid would get a bad rap that evening. I was a first, first niece, first grandchild. They all believe they owed a lot to my father for sending them to school. My father would send me with his sisters, in full trust that they were perfect examples to her daughter, after all, they had all excelled intellectually and economically. They all set out to teach their niece on how to approach life.
One of these aunts was a college instructor, who treated my siblings and I as her own. She is the only one I knew who would not hesitate to spank me if need be. If my father and I disagreed on allowance issues, or going out with our friends, this aunt, and not my mother would tilt the scale in our favor. A mother of 5 children, my aunt was what one would call kichwa maji and had a match in her husband. You see, these two would argue heatedly, send their children away to be with my family and continue the fight. Once the dust settled, they would ask for their kids back. Back then, none of us knew what necessitated abrupt holidays to Kisumu, Nakuru, Mombasa. As I grew older, she let me know that their intense love and stubbornness carries tones of respect. Most importantly, that a man should never ever slap me. That if I ever showed up at her doorstep with that, she too would slap me.
Then there is the attorney who advices a woman to marry one who loves you more saying that it has worked for her. Her doctor husband is always in the background, only speaking when spoken to. I don’t know what their son makes of it. Growing up, she was my favorite aunt-- all dressed up with rosy stories of what a girl should be. She got me my first designer skirt suit, to her taste. It was perfect. You see, appearances were very important to my Aunt Gladys. And so I learnt how to step out with confidence.
Then there is the aunt who is a forester, who is so hardworking she scared her husband out of the marriage. Her ex- husband's argument was that she was economically intimidating. I never figured out how a comparably exposed man would find her intimidating. This man was so abusive, at one point he literally beat the daylights out of his wife and started slicing her as bread. it was only the houseboy's call to the police that saved my aunt. Surprisingly, this is a man who is western bred, the ‘beacon of rights’ eeh? As a child, I wondered why my aunt never hit her husband back. The said man was not a gigantic figure. Even as a child, I knew I would raise a hand. Barbaric, yeah, but in this instance, it was to save oneself. After years of trying, and living miserably, she permanently left, and has never been happier. The ex-husband has lost everything along the way. I learnt to go where the love is, and in this short life, one cannot allow themselves to be a punching bag.
Eve the administrator is the territorial one who will bash anyone attempting to attack her family. From her, loyalty is the word. Even though families fight, she urged everyone to stay loyal to each other.
Tina, a registered nurse, just gets along with everyone. She is the peace keeper. As expected these women, with slightly big egos, occasionally go at each other, and Tina (the youngest of the sisters) was the one to cool them off. Lessons from her are that one need not compare herself to her successful siblings, but find what makes her happy.
I am a textbook example of a village raising a child, for all these women were a constant presence in my life. While I still struggle with lessons learnt from them, I try to take the best and use those that serve me best. My silent teacher, my mother, is the one I see most in my undertakings. She has never been so special!
Her loud silence wakes me up, and guides every second of my decisionmaking and general approach to life. Looking back I think adolescence was quite a window shutter. While I thought my mother seemed to play by my father’s rules, I failed to notice that whatever she said in that home was the silent law. Not even my father overruled it. Today, I see it more clearly.
As I struggle with the challenges of my own relationship, I wonder how my parents made their marriage work.
Until then, happy Mother’s Day to all kenyaImagine readers. I realize that even if my mother never mentions that she loves me again, I am blessed and lucky to have her. By the mere fact thatyour mother let you grow, the days when you looked up to her for everything: eating, burping, pooping, cleaning is a blessing. Nothing surpasses that. And just telling her once in a while that you appreciate, is not so bad either.
Mouth it out: I LOVE YOU MAMA, FOR JUST BEING MY MAMA.
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You are fortunate to have had all these wonderful in your life.
Also it is generous of you to share it with Kenyaimagine and I hope that you too may have many happy mothers days in the future:-)
Make Every Day Mother's Day