Lately, thoughts of my mother would envelop me and fill my heart with delight.
I wonder where this stems from, the deep longing that was not present before now. So many things I would imagine us doing together like having a photo session and sidelining my brother – he doesn’t just fit the ‘aesthetics’, no matter how much I try to add him in my head plus, he is indifferent to such affairs so why bother him in the first place?
The next time I reap the benefit of capitalism, I’ll run to our house on the mainland to have that much-desired ‘ìyá àti omo’ shoot.
My mother is a beauty! I can’t imagine how good she would look on photo, with her long black natural hair now tinted with some grey.
Someone once commented on how she must have turned heads in her teenage years, and even added that she had realised where her daughter got her fine face. Oh! Music to my ears, please.
- Someone thought my mother was beautiful.
- She also thought I was beautiful.
- Now I don’t have to worry about being an ugly grandma, I mean I could manage cranky, definitely not ugly.
Big W for us, my mother and I.
Today, I am choosing not to focus on the beauty of Modúpé’s face, it is her heart for me – the heart of a Mother.
Modúpé as my mother is one of the greatest gifts God bestowed on me and I would never have it another way. How did we get here though? We had so many differences and rarely saw eye to eye. My father was my first and only option for the longest time.
Could this be another case of a mother-daughter rapport that evolves with time? I can’t figure it out but I love what we have now — our twice-a-day check-ins. My mother calls me at 8 am and 7 pm everyday except on Thursday mornings; she’s in church, engaging in a spiritual warfare for her children. Modúpé is a top-babe fr. Omoge 1950 herself lol.
Patience is not my forte, but I am learning. You know, there’s a stage in which your parents age and you become a subtle decision-maker for them. They report a sibling to you, recount an event in hopes that you would gauge their reactions and give feedback. Well, instances like this often cause a clash between us.
I’m quick to judge matters, and give verdicts but my mother is the opposite, as it should be anyway. The contrast in our identity often puts me in fear. There is the constant nudge to be a better person and deep down, I know that I would be a better human if I could just mirror her but here is the scary thing, life is never fair on people who take the back seat because they don’t want wahala. Life is brutish, you have to wake up and fight.
I am grateful to my mother for the love she constantly brings me. It’s so genuine that I do think no one may love me that much. My mother’s love makes me look forward to birthing a child whom I could share those raw emotions with.
I just had a eureka moment, and this is it — you can’t tap into that love until you make a miniature of yourself.
A mother’s love is deep and overwhelming. Jesus hit the matter when he asked that question; if anyone would give their child a snake if they asked for a fish.
On my worst days, I would remember that I have love at home, that Modúpé’s arms are my safe place.
And I hope for the life of me that I can be half a mother as her to my unborn children.
