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Everybody says their mother is the best thing. But half the time, it’s just patronising and a diplomatic attempt to present a parent in the best possible light, when the reality is nowhere near the praise. My mother, Patience Inyang, is literally one of a kind. Just like most young adults, the older I get, the more I appreciate her sacrifices.
There is a common saying in geopolitics, “geography is destiny”. It suggests that a country’s physical location largely shapes its military, political and economic successes. So when I tell people that I come from a humble background, it’s not just about telling sob stories; it’s the recognition that I’m anything but what my circumstances suggest. If not for the sacrifices of my parents and their intentionality, my geography suggested that I should have ended up as an out-of-school statistic, a criminal mastermind or a nuisance to society.
A mother hen incubates her eggs by brooding, which, amongst other things, means she uses her own metabolism to condition the eggs. This metaphor aptly describes my mother’s influence on her children’s lives. We were the kids that were born in the hood but went to the best schools their meagre incomes could afford, grew up in the trenches but everything about us was giving boujee, experienced the ghetto but aspired for the soft life. This also explains my being socially ambidextrous; it’s not a shtick, I can actually relate to both worlds.
My parents waited many years to have children, and in an age when a wife’s usefulness was largely measured by the ability to produce offspring, it was the most challenging time of their marriage. A lot of waters passed under the bridge, my mother had to endure unspeakable things and survive the onslaught of those who ascribed to themselves powers as supposed custodians of culture. In hindsight, I totally understand why my traditional parents would end up raising transitional children – the fight was too fierce for us to remain ordinary. Whether for good or otherwise, we always stuck out like a sore thumb in the context of our extended family.
My storytelling prowess didn’t fall from the sky; if you know my parents, you would agree that they are both master storytellers. My dad’s oratory is legendary; his ability to couch words to meet the requirements of an occasion made him a much sought-after man. My mother could tell you the same stories a thousand times and never miss the details or sequence. She never missed the chance to tell us the events that preceded us, the joys of motherhood and how her faith was shaped in the crucible of those conflicts.
Once her first child arrived on earth, my mother didn’t think twice; she sacrificed her career to raise us. She worked with the caucasians at the time and had a fabulous job with a decent salary, but she willingly gave up all those perks to invest all her time, energy and resources in these children of consolation. Sometimes that’s all a mother can do: love her children with all her heart. She is not great because she bought us all the toys or fancy clothes; she’s great because she committed herself to our own greatness even before we became cognizant of it.
Like most boys my age, I was a hothead who gave my mother a tough time, but nobody believed in me more than her. My mother still reminds me about the specific prayers she made to God before and after my birth; the same for my siblings. Many years ago, I decided that I didn’t have to wait until I had all the money in the bank to show her how much I love and appreciate her. Every month, I give her a love offering, not that she would be sustained by it, but as a reminder to her and me that I appreciate her and the role she played in my life. My only pain is that I’m not yet in a financial position where I can do more for her because she really deserves more.
It took being an adult to fully grasp what a mother sacrifices for her child. When I was younger, we had direct access to the pot, and I would eat without ration. Not because we had more than enough, but our parents didn’t want hunger as an excuse for coveting the neighbours’ food. Without fail, we had Christmas clothes. We were actually allowed to watch television and attend social events. Those seemingly non-descript acts of love added up in shaping my personality and worldview. When I sort out bills these days, especially for others, I feel a bit of what my parents felt. I’m low-key an unchartered accountant now because the maths is not mathing when it comes to the cost of living.
Shout out to the amazing mothers in the world who are doing the best for their families on shoestring budgets, enduring toxic workplaces just so they can eke out a living that puts food on the table and making countless sacrifices to ensure that their children end up more successful in life than they are. Motherhood is indeed a thankless job; the least we can do for those of us who still have them around is to give roses while they can still smell them.
Dear Madam Patience, the matriarch of the Inyang family, I just wanted to let the world know how much I appreciate you and celebrate your labours of love that have contributed in no small way to the man that I am today. This is not a performative piece to score brownie points on the internet, but an expression of how amazing you have been despite all your limitations and flaws. Hopefully, someone out there would see this and realise that their mother has also contributed to the life they have now more than they would love to admit.
Na my mama be that, I no get another one.
The post Mfonobong Inyang: The Warrior That Is My Mother appeared first on BellaNaija - Showcasing Africa to the world. Read today!.
