Numerous rhymes of praise by famous poets have been written for mothers since the beginning of morality.
Many more artists have made virtuous attempts at the topic since Allan Poe’s blue, ‘To my mother’ in 1894, to this day of easy education and fleeting artistry.
One of the few whose impact have rung in the walls of many nursery schools, and easily on the mouths of many a school children is very revealing and alas, has no known author. It goes like, ‘mama, mama I am sick. Call the doctor very quick……….’
In my simple awareness I try to imagine what the absent author had in mind when he came up with the easy rhymes ‘doctor, doctor, shall I die? No my dear, do not cry.’
Honestly, very little comes from my deep thinking.
It is very easy to accept and glorify the major roles of mothers, especially on occasions such as mother’s day. However the ones we forget to mention and brush aside as insignificant are the most worthy of our gratitude.
Like the million times we have called on her to call the doctor because we were sick and the million times she went on her knees……to tie your shoe lace and not to pray for herself.
Or like the time she had to wash your face with a pale of water out of her half bucket full because you had your inquisitive eyes wide open while she bathed you.
And again the night at your grandma’s place when she had to wake you up every hour on the clock to ensure you didn’t wet the bed so your cousins couldn’t tease you in the morning.
Everyone else couldn’t be bothered by the nonsensical questions that came from your play filled mind as a child. But she would. Occasionally spanking some sense into your head through your buttocks to leave her be. But not for long. You’d return, unperturbed by the pain, recently past.
She took you everywhere.
To school on your first day because the stories you heard from your peers about the KG madam were enough to kill any ambitions of education. But you were sure your mother was stronger than any teacher wielding a cane. The only beatings you could comfortably take were hers only.
Then to the stone quarry too. Strapped tightly to her back, you forgot all your worries and dozed to the rhythm of hammer hitting stone in the oddest melody, catching only the notes of her splintered palms.
She loves effortlessly. You fault her as often she breathes. Then she forgives. Period.
A quick reminder that her job isn’t done. Even in death, you call on her. In every vein, memories of her flood your system and you wish on a stone to trouble her once again.
Oh, when fate is cruel enough to take you first, you leave behind a frail being, detached from the very essence of her existence, till the day she is laid to rest in sublimity.
Finally, when all is said and done, we are left with pieces…….pieces of a whole that used to be a woman who gave up chunks of her dreams to ensure that you lived yours to the fullest.
Mothers rock!
 For comments and contributions please write to the author, Emma Wiafe at twumwaa94@gmail.com
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