The African Mum

To be a mother is a sacred blessing and privilege, a chance to guide and nurture young ones who, if raised well, grow into a gift for you, the mother, and for the one who bears the weight of being called Dad. Since a child naturally leans toward its mother, the task of home training and upbringing often falls to her, the Mother. Today, I’ll take you back to my childhood days with the one I call Mum—how I endured her fiery, brimstone-tough home training and how she, with unwavering love, shaped me into the person I am now. Today, I’ll share the story of Nneora⁽¹⁾, fondly known as Adadioranma⁽²⁾, a name my grandfather bestowed upon her like a crown.

It was time for morning devotion In our house, our daily ritual held between 5:00 a.m. and 5:30 a.m., and missing it—especially after a reminder—came with dire consequences. There I stood in the parlor, half awake, teetering on the edge of my dreamland, mumbling “Good morning, Jesus, good morning, Lord” in a drooling voice that pushed Mum to her limit.

“Erozonna mepe onu gi buorom chukwu abu!⁽³⁾” she yelled, her voice a thunderclap that sent shivers racing down my spine.

“I know you come from heaven above,” I pressed on, this time louder than my sleepy drone, sensing danger thick in the air—not the kind where our Heavenly Father, displeased with my sluggish singing, would strike me down, but the kind promising a slap so sharp it’d jolt me awake, wondering if daybreak had crashed in, and rouse the next-door neighbor too.

After prayers that morning, Mum summoned me.

“Erozonna,” she said, her tone firm as iron, “why is it that every time we call for morning prayers, you’re still sleeping? Would you be dozing if I called you this early to eat?”

If there’s one sure thing in this house, it’s this: Erozonna loves food. It’s the quickest way to lift my spirits, a straight path to my heart. “Atryikwana ifa next time,⁽⁴⁾” she bellowed as she turned toward the kitchen to start preparing breakfast.

Daybreak had arrived, and since it was a Saturday morning, my twin sister Esomife and I had already begun our house chores.

“I want this house sparkling clean—your aunty Ugonma is coming today,” Mum instructed.

We were overjoyed to hear that Aunty Ugonma was visiting. With eager hearts, we dove into sweeping, cleaning, and scrubbing, buzzing with delight that Aunty Ugonma was on her way. Aunty Ugonma, whom we fondly called Aunty Biscuits, had been a family friend for as long as I could recall. She owned a provision store filled with household essentials—and, more thrilling to us, a treasure trove of assorted biscuits in every shape and size. Whenever she stopped by, we’d greet her with warm hugs and gleaming grins, with childlike glee, waiting for her to deliver the goods. As always, she never let us down. Biscuits and sweets rained down like a sweet storm within moments of her arrival.

“You people should bring them here so I’ll keep them for you,” Mum said, her voice cutting through our bliss like a sudden shadow.

“Bring what where?” I shot back instinctively, my young face flaring with anger and defiance. I’d scrubbed floors, washed plates, and mopped the house—all for the joy of devouring Aunty Ugonma’s treats right then, not for someone to ration them out later. Mgasonna’s face mirrored mine, visibly sour with displeasure.

“Take one and bring the rest here so you can take them to school on Monday,” Mum ordered, her tone no longer soft but sharp as a whip.

“Hapunu umuazi ka haa taa biscuits”⁽⁵⁾ Aunty Biscuits chimed in, coming to our rescue. Talk about perfect timing! Aunty Biscuits always knew just what to say and when to say it. Mum had no choice but to relent, and as usual, my share of goodies vanished in minutes.

The next morning was my school’s graduation ceremony and prize-giving day, a moment every student eagerly awaited. After prayers, my sister and I prepared for school, and by 7:00 a.m., we were about to step out when I heard my name.

“Erozonna, do you have your hand gloves, handkerchief, and white socks?” Mum asked, catching me just before I slipped away.

“Yes, Mummy,” I replied.

That day, I and a few other graduates were chosen to perform a pantomime—ko so ba bi re—in the school auditorium. When our moment arrived, we pulled out our white handkerchiefs and threw ourselves into it with all the energy and determination we could muster, eager to dazzle our parents. From the crowd, I spotted Nneora, my mother, her face alight with a proud smile as I danced with effortless grace. Her joy overflowed—she leapt to her feet and shouted, “That’s my boy!” pointing at me so the whole audience knew exactly who she meant. After the event, we headed home, bathed, and settled in to watch NTA’s Tales by Moonlight, the children’s program that capped our day.

The following day ushered in the long vacation. My mother was preparing to attend her younger sister’s wedding that morning. She’d already picked up her dress from the seamstress and was trying it on, pairing it with a gele that flowed like a crown atop her head. Nneora, though older now, still radiated beauty.

“I’ll be back by evening,” she said as she left us for the wedding.

Evening arrived, and we were already waiting—not because we missed her exactly, but because we knew she’d return with treasures for her children. Our wait was short-lived. Mum swept in like a queen making her grand entrance.

“Where are my children?” she called out, her voice filled with joy.

We rushed toward her, enveloped her in hugs, and chimed in unison, “Mummy, welcome!” Then came the moment my sister and I had been eagerly awaiting. As Mum settled down, she reached for her bag, and we scrambled to bring it to her. She began unloading its contents—what didn’t spill out from that bag? Plates of takeaway rice, malt, chin chin, sweets, even wine—it was practically bottomless. I grabbed the ceramic plate and asked Nneora, “Where should I keep this?”

“Come and keep it on my head,” she snapped back. Mum always bristled at our childish questions, especially the ones with obvious answers. We’d learned that “Come and keep it on my head” was her signal we’d asked something foolish.

And so, the tapestry of my childhood unfurls its final threads, woven tight with the indelible mark of Nneora—my mother, my rock, my Adadioranma. She was a force of fire and tenderness, her brimstone-tough training tempered by a love that shone through every sharp word and warm embrace. From the early morning devotions that jolted me awake to the joyous chaos of Aunty Biscuits’ visits, from the proud cheers at my graduation dance to the exasperated snap of “Come and keep it on my head,” Nneora shaped me—body, soul, and spirit—into the person I stand as today. Her lessons weren’t just in the chores or the prayers; they were in the way she carried beauty even in age, the way she filled our home with discipline and delight, the way she taught me that love could be both a command and a gift. As I look back, I see her now not just as Mum, but as a legacy—a beacon who lit my path through life’s storms. Nneora, fondly called Adadioranma by my grandfather, lived up to that name: a mother beloved by all, whose heart was our haven. And though time has carried me far from those days, her voice still echoes in my ears, steady and true, guiding me forward with every step.

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Word Glossary

1. Nneora (A mother to all)
2. Adadioranma (A good mother to all)
3. Erozonna mepe onu gi buorom chukwu Abu (Erozonna open your mouth and sing praises to God)
4. Atryikwana if a next time (Don’t try this again next time)
5. Hapu umuazia ka ha taa biscuit(leave this children to eat biscuits)