Mother

By Winifred Òdúnóku

The Three Ages of Woman by Gustav Klimt (1905)

Mother grew up in a small house — a very small house, especially for a family of eight. They lived in Idorunwon. A village, officially, but in truth, no larger than a street within a housing estate in Lagos. Idorunwon is located in Ijebu This-Way-To, the nickname given to the other parts of the Ìjèbú kingdom that were neither Ijebu-Ode nor Ijebu-Igbo nor Ijebu East. To put it aptly; Mother grew up in one of the remotest parts of Ogun State in southwestern Nigeria.

Growing up in her small village of Idorunwon in the Ijebu North East Local government of Ogun State, Mother had little to no exposure to civilization. What 'exposure' she couldn't get because of her location, she strived to catch a glimpse of through books. Her library was small, but rich. It housed the great works of Chinua Achebe, D.O Fagunwa, Buchi Emecheta, Cyprian Ekwensi, Williams Shakespeare, George Orwell, and Wọlé Soyinka. From this small library, I would later inherit books like Things Fall Apart, No longer at Ease, Joys of Motherhood, and Ògbójú Odẹ Nínú Igbó Irúnmalẹ̀. The interesting fact is that I still have these books, safely kept in a cupboard and stacked away in a small store room in my father's house. It would be a dream come true if I could keep these books and hand them over to my own children as my Mother did to me. 

But it wasn't just books that Mother handed to me. 

There were stories too. 

Many of them.

Some forgotten, others — like Mother's own story — safely hidden in the abyss of my memory. This story lives in me.

Mother grew up in a family where they usually had eba in the morning, garri in the afternoon, and eba at night. She would relay how her father was grounded and couldn't work because of his health. So her mother, whom I was named after, had to do all that two parents were supposed to. She bore it all and took care of her children, just as Mother had to do for us. I don't want to share in my grandmother's fate, even though we share the same name: Adeola. Crown of Wealth. I want to have my own crown of wealth,  but still be taken care of by a man. I want only the good things in this life. I don't want to share in my Mother's fate, whose life mirrored her mother's closely. I pray everyday not to have to raise my children alone while their father lives. 

When Mother was growing up, she was the only female child for a long time, so, naturally — but rather unnaturally if you ask me —, she had to do most of the chores around the house, until much later when her younger sister was born. Perhaps it was this upbringing that made Mother scold me with the “you're-a-woman” talk every time I was caught lazing around when there were chores to be done in the house, or whenever I prepared a tasteless soup with too much water. Mother had two elder step brothers. She is the second born for her mother, and the eldest daughter. I have two elder step siblings, my twin brother and I are Mother's second born, and I am her only daughter. I hate to imagine the similarity between Mother's family when she was growing up, and the family I was also born into. I hate to imagine the possibility of leading a marital life similar to Mother's, or Mother's mother. It haunts me every time I think about it. 

Will I go the extra mile for the children that come out of my bosom? By Jove! I will. For that is what Mother is doing for me because her mother had done the same for her.

When Mother finished primary school, her mother told her that was it. That was how far she could support her in her education. Now, she had to join her fully on the farm to work, planting, harvesting, and selling farm produce for sustenance. Mother's four brothers were already doing this full-time and her mother expected her to know that she'd have to join the train. But Mother cried. She cried for two weeks and refused to take any food. She told her mother that the only thing she wanted was to go to secondary school. Nothing else mattered. Not even her life. Her mother was confused and helpless. What kind of problem was this? Ká dè ma ṣe nôín?

Idorunwon is a small village, so the news of Mother refusing to eat unless she was sent to secondary school spread like wildfire. People who could offer comfort to Mother did so, encouraging her to embrace reality. Couldn't she see that her mother cannot even afford to feed them, let alone send them to school? People who had nothing to offer shook their heads in pity. What had gone into this small girl's head? How many of her mates in the village have been sent to secondary school? Even if a parent had the money, wouldn't they prefer to send their sons to school instead? To some, Mother's dream was just that — a dream, and one that could never come true. To others, she was brave for having performed that kind of drama, just because she wanted to go to secondary school. To Mother's mother, Funla was being inconsiderate. Ìwọ mọdé wèé, wé dẹ̀ ṣàánú ẹni? “Please, pity me,” her mother begged. But Mother remained resolute. She wanted to further her education and so shall it be.

Two years passed before the universe smiled on Mother. One fateful day, a village teacher who had just attained a new position as a headteacher at Isonyin Grammar School came running to my grandfather's house with good news. Was Funla still interested in attending secondary school? She could come with him to Isonyin and start Grade 1, even though she was well above the age for students of that class. Mother's mother dismissed it, saying Funla had forgotten about school. It had been two years after all. She had become accustomed to her new life. 

No! 

Like a baby biting hard into its mother's nipple to get her attention, Mother screamed and ran into the dark living room after eavesdropping on the conversation for a while. To do this was a punishable offense in many homes at that time, but this was a matter of life and death. Instinctively, she ran into the elders' conversation and said that she was still interested in going to secondary school. That's all she's ever wanted. Mother's mother was not one to turn a blind eye to the emotions, wants, and desires of her children, so she granted Mother's request and sent her forth with the good Samaritan, transferring her custodianship to the man. Mother's mother blessed her child and wished her well in her journey. She'd miss Mother, her first and most mature daughter. Mother's younger sister would, too. 

In Isonyin Grammar School, Mother took to her studies religiously. She was living with the headteacher and acting as a housekeeper in his home. That was the least she could do to thank him for helping her go to secondary school through his influence. Many challenges occurred at Isonyin, but Mother remained intent. Had she not fought so hard to get an education? Nothing else mattered to her but her studies - not the maltreatment from her guardian's spouse, not the hundred lashes from a teacher who deemed her handwriting too poor, and certianly not the competition and intimidation from the boys in class who found it offensive that a girl was top of the class. None of these things could stifle Mother. She stayed through to the end and became a Secondarian (whether this word exists or not is not up for debate: that's what Mother calls herself. I've come to accept the word into my vocabulary because of how Mother says it with pride each time she sits us down and narrates her life story to us). 

Nearly two decades later, in one of my unofficial jobs as a support trainer at a firm training corps members on professional courses, I would walk with calculated steps into Isonyin Grammar School, taking in the ambience of the institution, while thanking it for giving Mother an edge in life. Many memories abound in Isonyin Grammar School, you see. It was where Mother had her first exposure to people, resources, and experiences outside the confines of her father's village. It was where her dreams of taking poverty out of her family had started.

After completing secondary school, things became tougher for Mother. She did not want to return to the village, for what use would her presence be to her aging mother if she couldn't support her financially? Mother found favor in the the sight of an aunt who took her to Shomolu, where she lived in a timber house with her husband and children, one of the most prized possessions of many-a-landlords in Lagos of the 1980s. At Shomolu, Mother dusted her shoes and started looking for jobs with her secondary school leaving certificate. Knowing where she was coming from, she didn't leave her success to fate or luck. Mother knew she had to put in the work if she ever wanted to change her reality, and that of her family. Once, she worked at a fashion house, another time at a photography workshop, and then, a printing shop, yet none of these places gave her what she needed to achieve her dream of taking poverty out of her generation. At the printing press, a theft occurred that primed the owner of the business to invite a Babaláwo for divination. He wanted to know which of his employees had the temerity to steal his money. The Babaláwo, like all herbalists do, made everyone swear before his god. 

But they did more than swear. 

Mother would recount this story to us many times with both gusto and a tinge of sadness in her voice. The Babaláwo placed fresh eggs in their hands after a series of tongue-biting incantations. They were then lined up and marched outside, barefoot, to an open area where an āgbādā—a wide frying pot with hollow bottom—had been carefully placed. The Babaláwo instructed them to circle the āgbādā and continued his incantations, in the public eye, for whoever the thief was had to be disgraced publicly. From nowhere — and whenever Mother reached this part of her story, she would fling her hands into the air and, mimicking the sound of a bomb, bring them down — Gboooaaaahh: the āgbādā was engulfed with fire and started to burn fiercely. With their bare feet on the ground and the heat from the āgbādā growing larger and larger, pain shot through their bodies and the fresh eggs in their hands began to boil. The thief, according to the Babaláwo, would be the one whose egg caught fire instead of getting boiled. And, on catching fire, that person's blood would serve as fuel for the egg to keep burning, until the person confessed or ran out of blood and dropped dead. I do not remember how this ended.

What I do remember from the story is that the public humiliation perpetrated by her boss and the Babaláwo left Mother battered and sober, but with a strong resolve to leave the printing press and find a more befitting job — one that could help her achieve her grandiose goal. That meant a secure job with constant income.

Some time later, Mother got a whiff of an open application to join the Nigerian Police Force. As it was on many occasions before this, her application was stunted by an oga at the top who requested to have her body if she wanted to make the final list. Mother’s refusal to comply with such requests made her travel from Abeokuta to Shomolu severally, without her guardians knowing what was going on. She recounted how, on the day she finally got her appointment letter and told her guardians about it, her aunt had said "Ah! You this lady. You can kill somebody oh." But that was mild. 

When Mother had finished her training at the Police Training College in Akure, and sent her swearing-in photo to her parents via postmail, her mother had clasped her hands in the air and wailed. Of all the professions to join, Funla had decided to become a police officer. Her first daughter decided to plant hatred in people's hearts. Has she forgotten that an Ijebu man does not befriend a policeman? Ìjèbú àti ọlọpa kìí ṣ'ọrẹ. If an Ijebu man sees a snake and a policeman, he'd spare the reptile and kill the human.

Mother's mother could not wrap her head around why her first daughter would do this to her. Why would she go behind her back and become the very thing that her people hated the most?

Anathema.

But Mother did not think that her people's hatred for her career path should matter much. Would their love and support, or lack of it, make her achieve her goals?

So life continued.

For Mother's first posting after training college, she was transferred to Police Barracks, Ikeja. There, she met and made friends, one of whom would accommodate my elder brother and I several years later when we went for the Nigeria Air Force Recruitment exams at Sam Ethnan Air Force Base. Mother maintained quality friendships all through her work as a police officer. Many of these people stand up to help us because Mother had been of great help to them in the past. I love to see it — this ripple effect of good turns. However, Mother didn't stay too long at Ikeja, because she had to get married and relocate to Jos to be with her husband. 

This was where I knew her. 

One son and almost three years later, we were born.

I officially met Mother on a sunny Wednesday morning on the 6th day of March in 1996. My twin brother had come out first to taste the world — Táíyéwò — and thereafter told me all was good. I needed to see this beautiful place, too. So I came second — Ọmọ́kẹ́hìndé — yet always argued that I was older throughout our childhood. If my twin brother and I hadn't brought our names from heaven, we would have been co-named "Olashile." I always imagine how surreal the experience would have been for Mother, who was in labor in a rented apartment, and from there, rushed to the hospital to deliver twins, and then, when discharged from the hospital, taken to a new home. A home built from scratch by her husband, who was a building contractor. A place where her children would be raised, but also her step children from her husband's first marriage. Mother outdid herself in ensuring all six of us had the best education, parental love and care, and support we needed to course through life. She did her best.

But some still say it is not enough.

Life did not smile much at Mother. She married late because she had promised herself not to bear children if she didn't have a well-paying job. I don't want to be the kind of mother that would spank her child for asking for sweets because I don't have the money to buy it for her. But getting a job before marrying didn't exactly have an impact. Soon after marriage, her husband lost all his contracts and every new thing he ventured into, year in, year out, seemed futile. Things got worse when the responsibility of taking care of the house shifted solely to Mother. None of us — and by us, I mean the children that came out of Mother's loins — knew what she was going through until we became older and she found solace in sharing things with us. First, with my elder brother, her first born. Then, later, with me, her only daughter. I love how our relationship has blossomed over the years, and the many stories that have been exchanged between us.

There was the time when she would wake up in the middle of the night to cry her eyes sore. This was back when my twin brother and I were still babies, and Mother would try not to let her tears drop on us, as it was an abomination according to Yorùbá folklore. She said she wanted to throw in the towel on many occasions. But what would become of her children? There was also the time when she was almost crushed by an oncoming vehicle. And for what? She had been trekking to work that fateful morning, trying to cut costs and still have enough money to run the home, when she sighted their staff bus. In her attempt to catch the bus, she had crossed the road without checking for oncoming vehicles. 

Frrrrruuuuuuppppp!

The car had brushed past her at the speed of light and people shouted "waaaayyooo Allah," because to them, “this woman has already died.”

Fortunately, she didn't. 

Unfortunately, the staff bus didn't wait. 

Mother recounted how she had made it to work that day overwhelmed and wondering how she could have died because of thirty naira (the fare she'd have saved had the staff bus waited to give her a ride). The first day Mother shared this, and every time since, tears have always threatened to spill from my eyes. But on every occasion, my resolve becomes stronger: “I'll take my mother out of poverty and compensate her for all her sacrifices.”

Alas!

My mother's grandiose goal of taking her generation out of poverty has now become mine. Mother's mother tried, but failed. Mother tried too, and even went far and above, but somehow, failed. Now, it is my turn. 

When I was in JS 3, my family relocated to Ijebu-Ode from Jos. I had made a name for myself in my secondary school and was going to show my class competitors when we resumed that I could retain the first position without them overtaking me. 

My parents had different plans. 

On January 10th 2010, a day before we were due to resume school for the second term, a large truck came to the front of my father's house, and our properties were loaded into it one after the other. Mother had invited her sister-in-law, Mummy Furaka, to help us prepare and stock food in two big coolers. Jollof rice in one, fried fish stew in the other. Mummy Furaka confirmed her commitment to Mother, a.k.a Mummy Tina, by arriving at our house as early as possible and setting to work. Again, Mother had to go to the office that day, but she joined us later in the day as the truck was being loaded. Neighbors, especially our playmates, joined us in packing while poking questions at us. 

"Una no fit even tell us say una dey komot?"

We explained that we also didn't know about our parents' plans. We were oblivious to the whole arrangement up until the last moment. That passed. Then, when item after item was pushed out of the wide bellies of our bedrooms, another teenage boy couldn't contain his surprise when he sighted an uninstalled water closet.

"So una get this thing for inside una house na im una go dey shit for inside koto?"

We laughed when the boy threw the question carelessly in the air, but my father gave him the look and he behaved. The packing continued until every item was in the truck, our three seater fitted last. It was where we sat with our father throughout the day-long journey from Jos to Ijebu-Ode. Some (like me), spent half the journey vomiting due to motion sickness and the other half, sleeping. Others (like my twin brother), overfed on the packaged Jollof rice and kept a vigil throughout.

Ijebu-Ode wasn't as fanciful as Jos. 

It was there my journey to becoming a woman started. Mother joined us in Ijebu-Ode three or four months later because of the paperwork that went into processing a permanent transfer out of Jos. During that time, she was sending money back home for our upkeep. Seeing that level of sacrifice, I promised myself never to let her down. 

Time blinked and I morphed into a woman.

Mother's eyes started following me everywhere. From the bedroom to the living room. From the living room to the kitchen, where she would peer over my shoulder to gauge the semo I was turning. Did it have kókó or was it smooth enough? From the kitchen, her eyes would follow me out whenever I was leaving the house. And when I came back in, there'd be a motley of questions in her mouth waiting for answers. 

“Why did you come late?”

“Who were you talking to at the junction?”

“Where did you get money to buy these new slippers I'm seeing?”

“Let me tell you something. The day you carry pregnancy into this house is the day I'll send you packing.”

“Wòó, not even a single handkerchief will drop out of my body. You will go and meet the person that impregnated you and start your own family. Sheybe you're old enough.”

I wasn't the wayward type. Mother just thought saying these things would make me more chaste. 

Regardless of the overbearing rules she set as the matriarch of the house, Mother remained resolute in giving her children an education. Not just any kind. These children of hers had to surpass the level she was able to attain in life. 

Sometimes I wonder if she gets tired. Sometimes I see that she is tired but persevering nonetheless because of us. Sometimes, I advise her to take a deep breath – we're all grown up now. Let us continue the job from where she has taken it thus far. But no! Mother is too engulfed in her responsibility. Almost delivering on it to a fault. Abiyamo, kú ọrọ̀ ọmọ. 

In December 2014, I gained admission into Olabisi Onabanjo University to study Microbiology. I wanted Medicine & Surgery, partly because the vision of being a doctor had been sold to me since primary school, and partly because I wanted to please Mother, to help her “read the book she couldn't read” (she wanted one of her children to become a doctor). In my quest to change my offered course to Medicine & Surgery, to please Mother and make her earn the rather ignoble tag; Mama Dokita, I fell deep into a scammer's nest.  Because of this scam, Mother lost two hundred thousand naira, a loan she  had taken to process our admissions. 

Life became unbearable.

For days, I'd disappear right at the sight of Mother. Every time she saw me, I brought back the memory of the loss and I knew what that could do to her.

Sighs

Worries

Sobbing

Thinking

I continued to avoid her around the house until that one day for the owner came. She called me to the backyard. There, she was sitting on a bench, staring into the wall ahead and mumbling things to herself. That's the way I remember it. 

“Sit down.”

I sat and waited, avoiding eye contact, praying she wouldn't pounce on me and pinch life out of my delicate skin.

She sighed.

“Ọmọkẹhinde.” Her voice was calm. When she called me by this name, I knew to expect either of two things: adulation or a well-thought-out homily. For this situation, it was the latter.

“Pẹlẹ. How are you?” Of course she wasn't expecting me to respond. She waved her hand in the air to catch an inexistent housefly. 

I waited, still. 

She opened her fist and found nothing. Something else must have been sounding in her ears. She hissed.

I exhaled loudly, a cue that I was ready for her.

Then she started to pour her heart out in Yoruba, cutting, dicing, and slicing the words to be sure they delivered the results she wanted them to. The transition was clean.

I sat there wishing for death, for the Grim Reaper to come and decapitate me with his scythe. Maybe if I died, Mother wouldn’t be tortured by the memories of the loss at the sight of me. That was how I saw it.

Mother's voice stopped my wishes in their tracks. She continued her homily for what seemed like an eternity, replaying how hard she's had it in life as a ‘single’ mother. Are my eyes blind to see everything going on in the home? Can't I just have pity on her? Why couldn't I do due diligence before trusting a person on the internet? Is it by force to study medicine? Now the blame was on me even though she had always rang it in my ears that she wanted a doctor and saw me as the one to make that dream come true. 

My eyelids gave way. The tears poured out in torrents.

“What have you done to me?” She was speaking Pidgin now, her voice vicious, anger etched in each word, regret falling off their hinges.

“You know I collected a loan to process you people's admission.” She was speaking Pidgin, substituting Yoruba words to convey the right amount of hurt. “Oya na, tell me how you'll go to university.” She took the tip of her wrapper and dabbed the corner of her eyes. “Where will I get another money from now, ehn?”

The world stopped.

But only for a brief moment. 

When it came again, six years had passed.

It was during my convocation. Mother donned a sophisticated white lace for the event, and placed a red gèlè and ìpèlé on it to match. She was here and there, thanking well-wishers one minute and over-seeing the sharing of food the next. It was her ‘proud mother’ moment, and I was happy to see her that way. That day, she recounted how “the devil had wanted to steal (my) glory because it was shining too bright,” but her God is not a man. See the way He delivered (me) from the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence. See the way He didn't let the enemy have the last laugh. See the way He helped (me) follow through with my admission and even got a scholarship from an international organization. See the way she, a Secondarian, produced first-generation graduates from her loins. Is her God not wonderful?

If you ask to know what her biggest achievement in her thirty-five years of active service is, she'll probably say, “I raised my children and supported them to the level I couldn't reach in life. Mo sìn wọn dé ibi tí ẹrù ò ti ní bà wọn.” And if you permit her, she'll say much more until your ears get full.

But this is what I'll say; 

Dear Mother: Funmilayo, ọmọ Adeola, you're my woman. Ìyá ìbejí, in your motherhood I have picked a clean bone definition of a woman. With the threads of your motherhood, I have sewn my garment of womanhood. Whilst there are many definitions of who a woman is, which I equally am altogether, in yours, I see a woman as one that says — with every ounce of her soul — that come what may, "I am for it."