Sweet Mother

A Love Letter to Mother’s this mothers day

Dedicated to every mother holding it down. And one in particular, Mrs. Wasike, who deserves her flowers, her concotion, and the whole Sunday breakfast.

Every Kenyan walking around today is, at minimum, 60% prayer, 30% maziwa lala, and 10% leftover trauma from being sent to the shop with exact money and one more instruction whispered as you reached the gate. “Na usisahau chumvi.” You forgot the chumvi. You know what happened next. We do not need to relive it. Some things stay in the body.

We are here today because of a woman. Your mother. Patron saint of the slipper. CEO of the household intelligence agency. The only person in the country who can knead chapati dough, mediate a land dispute on WhatsApp, and side-eye you across a wedding hall hard enough that you feel it in your ancestral village. She is the reason you are alive, the reason you are scared, and the reason you are funny. All three. At once.

Let us begin with The Look.

You know The Look. You have survived The Look. The Look is a non-verbal court order. It does not warn, it sentences. You could be at a baptism, a graduation, a funeral, the inside of a matatu, and from across the room your mother locks eyes with you and says, with no words at all, “We will discuss this at home.” You go home. You discuss it. By “discuss” we mean she talks for forty-five minutes and you say “ndio mum” until your soul leaves your body and re-enters with a fresh sense of humility.

Then there is the slipper. Akala. Pata pata. Whatever your house called it, that thing had wings. Mothers have an aim that should be studied by ballistics experts at DEFCON. She could be in the kitchen, you could be in your bedroom three doors down, and that slipper would find you like a heat-seeking missile.

Speaking of houses, you must remember the rule. Hii nyumba si hoteli. You did not pay rent. You did not contribute to Tokens. You are not, in fact, on holiday at the Sarova. So why are you waking up at eleven? Why are your shoes in the sitting room? Why is the fridge open? Why are you breathing in that particular tone? Every mother has a tier list of offenses, and somehow walking into the house too loudly after 9 pm always lands in .

The kitchen is a museum of lies. You go to fetch something sweet. You see the Ice Cream tin. Joy! You open it. Githeri. You see the Fanta bottle . Hope! You open it. Munyu. The margarine container? Stew.. The only thing in this house that is what it claims to be is your mother’s love, and even that comes seasoned with “nilikuambia.”

Your mother’s WhatsApp is a different internet entirely. At 5:13 in the morning, while you are dreaming about a job that pays in dollars, she has already sent you a “Good morning ka my son” in eleven different fonts, three sunflower emojis, a Bible verse, a forwarded video of a goat doing something miraculous, and a voice note that begins with “Sasa ni hii.” The voice note is nine minutes long. The actual question arrives at minute eight. “Umefika salama?” You arrived three days ago. You told her. She knows. She just wanted to hear it again, in your voice, because that is how she sleeps at night.

And the comparisons. Oh, the comparisons. Watoto wa wenyewe. Other people’s children. They are doctors at twenty-four. They built their parents flats in Kileleshwa. They never raise their voices. They fast on Wednesdays. You have never met these children. They do not exist. They are an Avengers team your mother assembled in her head specifically to humble you. Every time you think you have done something impressive, she will produce a new one from the multiverse. “Mtoto wa Mama Brian amenunua plot Kitengela.” You are happy for Brian. You are also plotting.Either way block utatoka.

But here is the twist. Here is where the article turns and the eyes start to sting.

Because that same woman, the one who ran a small dictatorship out of the kitchen, is the one who sat by your bed when the malaria hit different. She is the one who fried you eggs the morning of KCSE results, pretending she was not also shaking. She is the one who gave you her last fare so you could chase a dream she did not fully understand but absolutely believed in. She is the one who said “tutaendelea kuomba” when you broke up with someone who was not even worth the prayer. She is the one who showed up at your graduation with a thermos of chai and an entire delegation of aunties who had not been formally invited but came anyway, because in this culture your win is everybody’s win.

Mothers love loudly. They love through food (eat, eat more, why aren’t you eating). They love through rebuke (because if she did not care, she would let you be foolish in peace). They love through showing up. To every hospital, every airport, every dark season. They are soft in the bone-deep way, the kind of love that builds a country, one stubborn child at a time.

So this Mother’s Day, call her. Not text. Call. Let her hear you. Let her stretch the conversation past the part where you said you had to go. Send her something. Even if it is small. Especially if it is small. She will tell three women about it before lunch.

Mrs. Wasike. Mum. This one is for you.

For every morning you woke up before the world did. For every school fee balance you cleared while smiling like it did not cost you anything. For the meals you cooked when you were too tired to eat them. For the prayers I overheard accidentally and pretended not to. For the way you say my name like you are still surprised God gave me to you. For the times you scolded me and were right, and the times you scolded me and were also right, just earlier than I was ready to admit. For your laugh, which is the original sound of safety. For your stubbornness, which I inherited and finally thank you for. For being soft in a country that often punishes softness, and tough in a way that taught me what spine looks like. Mum, everything good in me has your fingerprints on it.

Sweet mother, I no go forget you.