To mama

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I very much had the impetus of writing something about models, but then I thought my mother would be so cross with me in her tomb. My mother would wear a cold face if at all, during this mothers’ day I didn’t dedicate a long post to cherish and credit her for raising a nerd like me. In fact her ghost might haunt me for a full moon…visiting me on the wee hours of the night till dawn, bringing a flurry of drowning dreams that will make me sweat, cry and scream all night. You don’t want that. Do you?

Many ladies have accused me of being a hater. Misogynist for that matter. A man who just can’t side with women at any given time. Not even at gun point. That even the thought of women will make me throw up in the kitchen sink on those utensils. That I can’t look at women on the face and smile at them, even if it’s on a happy day. That I don’t care for the womenfolk. That I am not a gentleman, so I treat the women like fellow buddies. That I do not recognize how valuable our women are. And many other women-phobia stuff.

You may ask me how I know this. I know this because some lady asked me- Ni nini wasichana walikufanyia? Then I was younger and girls had long days in my docket. And time went past. Someone asked me- you are such a loner bruh. Wanawake walikufanyia nini. Now, wanawake in other words are women. I can’t recall what I really told her.

First I want to state that I adore women… beautiful women. I cherish them all because without them the world would have been such a solitary boring place for us men. And so I appreciate them because they are women. Unique, kind and caring in their own way.

The journey to all this starts with my mother. From the day I escaped through her smooth thighs. They were smooth of course, I had my eyes open damn it. I remember them like it was today. I know what you are thinking. Kindly stop.

So it happens to be Mothers’ day. It is a beautiful Sunday and I am hurdled on the sofa, covering myself with this shuka some woman hurled at me after she found a thong hanging in my bathroom. New thongs. Thongs that didn’t belong to her. I hook my eyes onto the telly, one hand on my chin, and the other one in my pants….the TV has some sensational movies.

I am in this Whats-app groups that people keep sending you things. By things I mean anything, so long as it is something. And Happy Mothers’ Day messages kept popping. I wonder why all those because many of us are just youngsters who needed nothing of the sort. But it made me reminisce of my mum. Dead in her grave. It is like 18 years gone but still it looks like everything just happened. So whatever follows is to her.

Also Read: NANYUKI

Dear mum
I am emotional right now. I haven’t grown up as such. Let me be in that state for today. But again I can be anything in your presence because I am still your kid. No matter how big or old I grow, I will never be your mate. I will remain that small ruined kid that you once loved. A love that has never faded for all those years. A love that cemented my character. A love so profound that I cannot seem to love any lady like I did love you.

Years have passed by. Things have changed. I have grown. And the little kid, the last born is equally grown, though she is headstrong. No woman can tell her a thing, leave alone any man. Not even dad. I am sure if you were around you would have whipped the hell out her because whenever someone tells her to do something she retorts back- you are not my mother. This means she still considers you as the ultimate parent of her life. Can you, in spirit or ghost form, come out at least once in her dreams and beseech her to listen to us? Will you do that favor for me? Thanks.

I was telling you how I have grown. Now I have a beard. A big one. Though I still pee while standing, seems like some things do not change after all. Dad didn’t take me to the prestigious schools you used to tell me about but guess what; I still made it to college. I still managed to shine through and now I have a career. One that I don’t think exists up there in heaven. Do you guys have fiber there or at least internet to keep up with the mundane trends down here? Well, I am a blogger now. One who writes on the internet. Before you start asking how much I make, let me say that it is a non paying career. One which people do for free for other people to read. You taught me the art of generosity, didn’t you? Well, as a diligent student, I carried on. Service to humanity. Call it benevolence.

Meanwhile, paps got himself another wife. I don’t think that you were so easy to forget… i don’t think so because he wept for you. He looked at your photos longer than any of us kids. He sat at the fireplace. Alone. Three months straight with your photo hanging on the wall. That man loved you. He never talked much about you but it was all on the face. You could see it on him every day. Years later, he brought home someone else, someone so foreign to us and he called her wife. And we were supposed to call her mum. We didn’t. Instead we called her aunt. We did not have the guts to betray you.

Aznath moved on. She is a proud mother now. Mother to Bochaberi- your maiden name. Bochaberi is in class three. Aznath got married. Again before you ask, there was no dowry. Do you know the story of Cinderella; they loved each other and ran away. We never saw them. They say love is more precious than dowry. But they are having a good life. Not glossy because just like two blind people, they do not have any decent career, leave alone education. I guess they will manage this life. Five years now. Isn’t that long enough to wish them well?

Erick still is the same. But he is big. He has muscle and shaves bald. I don’t think he is married yet. He and paps are two bulls. Every time they meet, something nasty happens. I guess two lions cannot rule the same kingdom. The dude drink. A connoisseur. Nobody can take his bottle away. It has become medicine. It has this value that I can’t tell. Only he, seems to know. He has done pretty other things that are awful. Things you may not want to hear.

Your mother is still alive and kicking. Despite the leg-aches that are dragging her life to slow death, she still has stark sense of hearing, good sight and humor. She still cooks me chicken whenever I visit. She has that love that no one can take away from her. She calls me often. From her end she will tell of dreams. She is a good dreamer. A Joseph of our times. She tells me that I will be one great person. She bestowed blessings upon me. And every day of my life is a blessing, though I look like a mess.

She talks about you regrettably, especially when she looks at my siblings. She can see a great gap in their lives. A gap she says no one can fill. She looks at them with sorrow. She does the same to me, but with her blessings I am like Jacob.

The other granny passed on in 2012. What is left back at home is loneliness. Paps and uncle have sorrow in their eyes. They cried during her burial. By the way did you guys meet up there? I hope you are having good time sharing fairies and watching the sun set. Or are you singing with other angels while caressing leopards?

I will not finish this short letter without informing you of this secret I have kept from you for long. I guess that is why you have been cold on me. While I was trying to run away from the women you warned me about, I became a dad. I don’t know how it happened. I swear I don’t know mum. It was no my fault. It was hers. She beguiled me. You know women. Just like Eve. Hope you will forgive me. The little girl is 8 now and living with her mom in Buckingham. Far in yonder lands. She calls. She is happy. She has that zero humor of yours. But she is bright and happy. She often wonders where you went. I tell her that you went to a trip to heaven, that when you come you will pay her a visit for a whole year. I didn’t lie to her. I was forced to postpone the truth.

I walk in the streets head high. I put on an assertive face all time. But when I am alone, I miss you and I cry.  I cry a lot. Life would be different if you were around. I miss those saucy meals. I miss those moments around the fire. But I do not miss the whipping you used to grant us whenever we misbehaved. It helped though. It shaped us. I miss you mama.

Signed with love.

Photo credit: crosscards

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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