It's a chilly Saturday morning here in my apartment. I listen to the soft patter of the rain that seemed to go on forever, the soft drizzle tapping gently on my window, stirring memories that make me feel blue, lonely and homesick.
The rain always has that effect on me. Saturdays especially, make it worse. I sat opposite the window, wrapped in my teddy towel, staring out at the metro station. Then my cell phone hummed softly;
“Mummy Calling.” I was ecstatic as I answered, my voice trembling with longing.
Hello, Mama…
My baby! How are you doing? You sound tired. Are you eating? Have you eaten this morning? How's school? I hope they are not overworking you there? You’ve not called me in two days. I hope there's no problem....."
Her questions were endless.
"Mama, Mama, I'm fine, there's no problem at all, I’ve just been drowning in assignments… and missing your voice, and your "Egusi" soup."
"Ah! This one you’re remembering my soup in that white man's land, you must really be homesick." She laughed adorably.
Oh those moments, I missed them so much.
"More than homesick, Mama. I’m soul-sick. This past week has been the toughest since I came here and I cried last night, Mama. I cried like I used to when Papa left and you'd hold me close."
"Oh my baby, she whispered tenderly. "You are still becoming, tears are part of the journey. But they don't mean weakness, they mean you're still human."
"Yes Mama. I remembered what you used to say to me, “Never let a bad day trick you into thinking you have a bad life.” I giggled through my tears.
"I wish I could bear your every pain, but there are battles you must face yourself, for you to become." I could hear the sadness hidden in her voice.
“But Mama, it’s too much. Sometimes, It’s too hard.” I said, sniffing.
“Do you think it wasn’t hard for me? Raising you alone? Working until I bled? Toiling day and night so I could give you a good life? I was tired every single day, but I never stopped.” she said gently.
"Sometimes I sit here and wonder, how did you do it?
Raise us alone… with nothing but your stubborn faith?" I asked, awed by memories of her love-borne labour.
"I did it for you. And now look — you’re in a foreign land, making me proud.
“ But I’m scared sometimes.”
"But why?"
""Because I want to fly, Mama. Very high. But my wings tremble sometimes…"
"Fear doesn’t mean stop, my dear. It means fight. And I always remember the little girl who would stay up late beside my sewing table, reading her books by lantern light… The girl who eventually fought her way abroad, surpassing all expectations."
"I took a leaf out of your book." I said softly. "More than a leaf, Mama. I carry chapters of you. The way you toiled, the way you stitched torn uniforms so neatly, so no one could notice. The many nights that I saw you awake. I remember your toil and know that I can never give up."
I heard her weeping softly.
I continued, the weight of her love and sacrifice overwhelming me, like a river spilling over its bank.
"You know, Mama…When my lecturer praised my essay last week and asked where I got my writing voice…I told him, “From a woman who never gave up, against all odds. She never went to university… but she taught me what it meant to survive and to excel.” And I wish you were here, not just on the phone, but beside me.
"I am beside you always, Riya. In your faith. In your fire. So you never tire. In every “no” life throws at you, so you don't forget to answer with a “yes”."
We both fell silent, holding the quiet across the phone, across the oceans, like a warm blanket. Letting our emotions run free.
Then with a heavy sigh of longing, she spoke slowly, deliberately;
"By becoming, you are showing the world that a woman raised by one poor woman can shine like the sun."
"Yes Mama, every day before class, I read the bible you gave me ... you know those verses you wrote down for me … they inspire me so much.
Then the wrapper you gave me even when you knew I wasn't going to tie it ..... I sleep with it under my pillow. It smells like you. Like home." By now I was completely wrapped in nostalgia.
"That wrapper? Eeeh! That wrapper I gave you to cover yourself during cold."
"Hahaha ...... Mama that wrapper cannot hold up against the kind of cold we have here..... but it serves a very special purpose...."
Mama sniffed! She was holding herself from crying. I knew.
"Just don’t forget to eat, eh? And don’t sleep late. And call me more. I miss your voice, even if you sound like a white woman now." A clever attempt to steer the conversation away from the gloom.
It worked, because by now I was laughing through my tears.
"I miss your scolding too. I’ll call more, Mama. I promise.
Okay. Be strong. Be kind. Be fire. And always remember: You are mine. And I am very proud of you."
"I love you, Mama....Forever."
"I love you more, my daughter."
When the call ended, I hugged my phone tightly, wiping away silent tears. Then I walked slowly to my reading table and opened my notebook. I began to write. A letter. A letter to my Mom.
Dear Mama;
When I got my admission abroad, you held my hands and said:
“Go. Fly. Don’t look back.
I left home and walked out into the world with nothing but a suitcase, a passport, and your voice echoing in my heart.
Remember when Papa left? I was just a child, but I remember the silence. How the house went still. How your eyes lost their lustre for weeks. But not once did you stop moving.
You taught me to turn pain into purpose, and you told me, “Education is your weapon.”
Last night, when I curled up on the bed and whispered aloud “I can’t do this anymore.”
I heard your voice in my head:
And now here I am, fighting to become—with books, with prayer, and with your strength beating like a drum inside my chest.
I used to think you were just my mother. Now I know better: You are my first miracle.
I carry you with me, even here — across oceans.
And one day, I’ll bring you here. I’ll take you to cafés and bookshops and show you the life you built from faith, tears, and sacrifice.
I can hear you jokingly say;
“You’ll take me to where oyibo people are drinking cold tea without sugar?”
And I would reply, smiling;
“Yes, Mama. And you’ll drink it with grace, and then we’ll go and find rice and stew to balance the equation.”
So Mama, I’m writing this letter to say: I see you now.
I see every scar behind your smile. Every battle behind your blessings.
Thank you, Mama. For your leaves. For your roots. For your rain.
Forever your daughter,
Riya.
All images are AI generated.
🌸My Motto is: work at making myself proud of myself.🌸
Thank you very much for taking time to read me. Have a wonderful day!
