Happy mother’s day our amours…

Ever asked yourself why women have three days set aside for them in a year internationally, while men only have one very unknown day hidden somewhere in the broke part of February or march (Not even sure when)?... wonder no more, back in Karambe high a teacher once told us that the only two beings who know a child’s real dad is the mother and God, and in some cases only God knows.  I believed her till now.

Today is one of these three days, one quite different from the other two (Women’s day and Valentines day), two of which generally aim to celebrate the female human species. Today however is the day we celebrate the females who have brought life to earth, those awesome people who gave birth to us, the mothers to presidents, engineers, priests, thieves, professors, football fans, arsenal fans, etc etc.

It’s a day which brings with it bitter sweet memories to me and others in my generation, more so those of us who had the privilege to be brought up in a village setting, those of us who were never sure what our mother’s moods would be in the evenings after a truant day at school, whether the evening would be ‘WWE Royal Rumble’, ‘The Titanic’ or Shakespear’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Obviously the latter only happened on selected Christmas days, or when our uncles from Nairobi would come visiting.

“Ng’ania, niwe we …?” (So and So, Is that you..?)

This looks like a very innocent statement, but trust me, in the household of Gichuri, it was feared more than molten plastic on one's gonads. This statement meant terror, when this statement happened, you realized you are in the wrong, and its most probably something you have been warned about many times before, and finally judgement had been passed, you would face the lioness’ wrath. This statement always came when we were exceeding the curfew hours, the time we were supposed to be lined up in the small kitchen outside the main house, waiting for our turn to bathe. (There was a small space for keeping tea picking baskets which doubled up as bathroom before you were old enough to use the main bathroom outside. It also ensured that our mother would check how one was cleaning behind the ears).

This statement was a rhetorical question, so you were to NEVER answer, BUT  just walk towards the house folding your small finger over her neighbor, our small way of begging Deity to come to our rescue. He was obviously always unconcerned.

On one fateful day I can remember my senses had taken a break and I dared answer my mother..

“Wamugi, is that you… ?” She had asked

“Yes it’s me ma....” I answered.

I saw my brothers look at me with those ‘You are finished’ eyes, I hoped there was a way I would unsay the words, but before I had done the small finger trick, my mother was all over me ‘pinching out the mistakes’. 

“Am not beating you, am beating the mistakes…”

This is another statement we collectively hated, if it were a person am sure we would have given it a very thorough dog-mob justice beating. This statement happened almost on a daily, and it happened in most of the households in our village. Well, not that our village was full of naughty rascals, but am sure if there was to be an Olympics event for truancy and our village was selected to represent our country, Kenya would have swept all the Gold Medals.

How they managed to bring us up in single pieces is a puzzle, the numerous accidents we caused on ourselves with sharp objects, it was believed that you were not hard working if you didn’t carry with you an ugly scar, mostly from cutting nappier grass.

In the village we had so much freedom, we would play anywhere, unlike our brothers and sisters who were brought up in the city, who had to watch out for vehicles whenever they played. Our mothers were never really concerned if we played on the roadside or even in the middle of the road, since the only vehicles that passed the roads was the factory lorry collecting tea leaves, and it only happened twice in a day. This freedom however is what really ate us, somehow your mother knew whatever you did throughout the day even when they had traveled to town for the whole day. It was like they had a drone around us, and whenever they came back with bread and sweets in the evenings, the first thing before candy was shared was reading out everyone’s misdeeds and dishing instant justice.  

Mothers in days of old had a confusingly funny ways of convincing you that they really loved you while at the same time beating the hell out of you. Those were the days when tough-love was the thing, they were the days when any woman in your vicinity was your mother, and they immediately took over any motherly responsibilities that your mother had on you. This still haunts me to this day, it caused me a disability whose effects I love, and whose effects are most notably humility and respect for others. To this day I see any woman as my mother, and I can comfortably give to them a motherly kind of respect.

Being a mother is never easy, i have seen it over the years, in their eyes, in their hearts, it's something you cant quantify, it's something we don't have to go through to know its impact.

To all mothers who have deserted their children, well, as long as we breath, its never too late to make amends.

To all mothers out there who have gone through hell for their little ones, those who have jumped  hoops, those who have gone through much hurt making the decision of giving some tough love to their kids, Also to those mothers and mother figures who have passed on, we will always offer comforting shoulders to those you left behind, we miss you.... We love you so much.. To the future mother of my kids, well, lets cross that bridge when we get there.