By Daniela Appiah
“Mummy, how was the move from grandpa’s place to daddy’s place?”
“It was a lot, my dear.”
Being in an isolated town in the Ashanti Region, where everyone knows everyone, was my mum’s happy place. She always talked about how all the children in Ofoase Kokoben came together to take group showers, and the mothers never worried about where their children were because they always knew where they were: with all the other children in the town. She never talked about her adventures with the town children but always from her brother’s point of view or her friends’ point of view if her brothers weren’t allowed out.
As a child, I struggled to understand my mother as she wasn't like most mothers I met. The ones I met were always relaxed around their children and were quick to be there for them constantly. But she has always been prompt to counter our objections about what kind of mother she is with the idea that she was raised in a different place at another time. Ofoase Kokoben is a rural underprivileged area close to the border of the Ashanti region. There, their basic needs weren't always met; water had to be fetched every morning with a bucket from a well and then boiled before use. Electricity was never readily available; thus, they had to wait until precise times to use certain appliances, all before school.
My mum struggled, and I failed to understand her struggle.
Her parents were strict: her dad was a teacher, and her mum was a food vendor. Back in her days, being a teacher was very important; everyone highly respected the idea of teaching the younger, more substantial generation. So her dad was a very well-respected man in their tiny little town in a big village. Everyone knew him by being his students’ parents or just his past students. He was well-loved; my mum, on the other hand, kept a straight face. Even in her pictures, she had a stiff pose: good posture, hands at their sides, legs together, chin up, and straight at the camera. Maybe, it was her parent’s strict nature reflecting through her, or it was simply a popular photo trend; in that case, my mum was cool.
My mum is the second or third born in the family. Second, if you don’t count her dead older sister, who drowned at the lake when she played with the other children in the town years before my mum was born. My mum was never allowed to play with the other children; she went to school with her dad and came back with him to work with her mum. What a price to pay for a crime she didn’t commit. Maybe she knows well that they hid her from the adventures of the world, kept her from forming connections with people, and shielded her from finding love. Maybe she knows all this but would instead think of it as love – love comes in different shapes and forms, right? A life without friends, a full schedule, and nothing but the protection of those around her.
No love there, mum.
Respect is what she gave them, regardless of whether they gave her respect. She may have been a girl, but she was human too. My mum, now, is highly respected by everyone but her own children, all five of them. She might have thought about being a different parent or just following her parent’s system. “Look at me. I turned out right”, she would say. No mummy, you didn’t, because I became the ball, you squeezed whenever you had to prove yourself to them. When your mother would complain about how I am not eating, rather than approaching me, you sought too much harsher herbal punishments – pushing fear. When speaking to them, your tone reeks of fear; maybe that’s why you are quick to pass the phone to us.
With her parents' involvement, my mother got proposed to, through a letter by someone who wasn’t even in the country. A young woman, barely in her 20s, hasn’t experienced what we call love. So how would she have survived marriage: a mutual agreement based solely on trust and unconditional love, one she hasn’t ever experienced. Marrying my dad was both a blessing and a curse to her; she didn’t fear him but liked the idea of having an authoritative figure. Maybe that’s when she realized what was going on because she grew emotions but not the courage to get up and leave. She had never been on an adventure as a child; she now has to go on one as an adult.
Even now, my mum’s room is a reflection of her confusion. She keeps everything just in case she may need it some time down the road. My mum is a hoarder; she can have everything she wants and is bound to keep it for years, but she always brings up the idea of longevity and our misuse when it comes to her children. My dad has a very materialistic love language, showing his love through clothes, shoes, and whatever he thinks we like. Together, they are a powerful force and also far away. Their marriage was based on the fairytale idea of what love was dreamed of and not what it is supposed to be. Being a product of their joint lives, I know they don’t know each other, yet they try to fill in the gaps of their incompetence with lavish gifts and parties in honor of themselves. Regardless of whatever they go through in their adventures, my dad will always view mom as the mother of his children, so to him, she deserves the world, and he will continue to give her everything. She knows that and has always managed to use that to her advantage.
After hearing and experiencing all this, my only question is, why? Maybe it is all the tragedy you’ve been through that you haven’t processed. Perhaps you don’t want us to know that you’re weak and meek, or is it the fear that we may lose respect for you as a mother? Could it be the possibility that you would be shamed and labeled a bad mother or the fact that your mother would turn her back to you? Whatever the answers may be this time, I wish you very well on your future adventures, Mother.