by Koromone Koroye
I don’t remember much of the relationship that existed between my mother and I during my earlier childhood years. The interactions we shared during my seemingly innocuous years as a wide-eyed, curious toddler to a stubborn, argumentative pre-teen life are long forgotten. Of course I have some specific memories stored deep in my cerebral (oh the wonders of the subconscious mind) but these saved memories hold little importance to the eventual shaping of the very delicated friendship my mother and I now share. Delicate because at any point, a relationship with your Nigerian mother can crack and split open right in a quick second.
My mother is not an abstract woman. She presents herself, from the moment you meet her, in the most honest and clear way. She is a force to reckon with; a strong wind that blows relentlessly, rustling leaves and shaking branches. She is powerful, perceptive, secretive, nurturing, open around family, but guarded around strangers, wise, spiritual, simple but still capable of being ostentatious when necessary. She has my utmost admiration. When we lived on the mainland, Mende Maryland to be specific, she would get up at the crack of dawn, literally, and travel to Mile 12 to buy bags of groceries for the week. At that time, we were too young to follow her on these hectic market trips, but somehow she managed to do it by herself until we were able to pitch in and take the load off. I remember how she would come home sweating, but smiling, happy that she would be preparing delicious meals for her four children and husband. My mother is a saint. She’s independent without being threatening – an important characteristic for any woman married to a Nigerian man.
At 24, I consider my mother to be both a friend and a confidant. We talk with ease, sometimes staying on the phone for interminable hours, talking about everything from boys, marriage, relationships, her job and her constant need to run out of Lagos on a monthly basis. This ease that we share presently did not exist 6 years ago when I was a teenager. Back then, I approached our conversations with caution, resentment and a stubborn heart. My mother had a habit of talking at me, sometimes punctuating her words with sharp, painful slaps. Whenever we spoke, I didn’t have a voice – I was a church mouse and she was a lion, and boy did she roar. She thought me young and brainless, I thought her old school and unapproachable. We butted heads constantly, both of us fighting to be heard at all costs, damn the consequences.
My mother raised my siblings and I with raw, unadulterated fear. From the age of 14, she talked to me about boys, warned me about their salacious intentions and desires. She was bent on shaping me to become a model house wife by forcing me to stand in the kitchen and observe as she cooked and worked. At 14, spending 45 minutes in the kitchen and missing my favorite TV show was pure torture. I hid my annoyance, protesting quietly in my head, knowing that any verbal response would trigger her anger. My mother’s anger was legendary in our home. Her was akin to a volatile volcano – one minute it was dormant and quiet, the next it was suddenly exploding with harsh words and sharp, critical invectives, leaving a shaken, tearful teengar in its wake. I learned how to track her anger, how to discern her moods when came home from work. If she was quiet when she walked in, an imminent temper tantrum brewed. She would always scream my name from the bottom of the first floor, griping about anything from an unwashed plate in the sink to a hastily wiped down coffee table. On her happier, better days, she would come home in high spirits, singing while she cooked and sharing the high points of her work day.
Our relationship didn’t change for the better until I turned 21, a crucial age in my books. I was still cautious around her but she had become softer and easier to talk to most of the time. I realized, a little too late, that all the advice about boys and relationships were useful and necessary. I needed her guidance, and on her end, i think she came to terms with my transition from stupid girl to sensible woman. A year later, at 22, we became close, talking freely and listening to each other without interruption. Our relationship hit its peak in the summer of 2013. I spent the entire month of August with my parents; I did most of the cooking and cleaning, I ran endless errands and did everything in my power to ensure their holiday was as work free and comfortable as possible. The bond between my mother and I strengthened that summer. I happened to be dealing with a terrible heart-break during that period, and while I didn’t share all the details with her, she sensed my sadness (ah, a perceptive Nigerian mother is a blessing) and talked me through the low points. She taught me that a busy mind could heal a broken heart at a quicker rate; an important piece of advice that I still hold on to very dearly.
Now at 24, where do I stand with my mother? Our relationship is definitely on solid ground. I can talk to her as I would any of my close female friends, but I am still aware that she’s a parent and for that, I hold her in high reverence. I applaud all her sacrifices and hardwork, she could have taken a lot more international trips but she chose to invest in our education. Raising three daughters and a son is no easy feat, but i think she did a stellar job with my younger sisters and older brother.
I think about the impact my mother has in my life right now and I hope it doesn’t change in the near future. In this generation of catty and perfidious women, I will always take joy in the fact that I can run to my mother to talk about anything, knowing she will be honest without any trace of deceit.
Koromone Koroye is writer for Mashable.com, she is also a spoken word poet, and you can hit her up on Twitter.
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.
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