My love story; Not your regular kind of love

From the umbilical cord that wraps around a foetus inside the womb to the cradle where an infant sleeps, and all the way through the teenage years and beyond, a mother’s sacrifices cannot be measured. This love goes far deeper than romantic feelings; it is unconditional, special, and unwavering. It is love rooted so deeply it cannot be severed, even amidst chaos and uncertainty.

To the woman who gave her body willingly to house another life without charge, who stood as watchful eyes through countless sleepless nights, nothing compares to a mother’s love that naturally overflows. Through birth complications, postpartum depression, and the overwhelming challenges that life throws her way, she presses on as if nothing has happened. This is a testament to a mental strength beyond measure, speaking louder than any clamor or boast.

Have you ever imagined how thick the bond is? Like the clouds piled high in the sky, or the depth of a child’s love for their mother? It goes beyond science or biological research. 

This is a story of love, affection, and care. It is a mother’s love.

Mothers are gold, while fathers are the mirror. Mine is worth far more than gold. Though I’ve lived shores away from home, miles apart from my parents. I can say without hesitation: there’s no place like home. The occupants of that home I long for are my parents, especially my maami. Many names try to describe who she is, but “maami” — which personalizes the fact that she is my mother and claims a part of me wherever I go, like a second skin , is what I love best.

When I say my mother loves me, you cannot dispute it, because not only have I felt it, I was birthed, fed, raised, and nurtured in that wave of love. And the proof of this is me being alive, safe, and sound.

Walking down memory lane, I have always seen my mother as the strongest human being on earth. She multitasked chores like a skill learned over a lifetime, her patience unparalleled in managing domestic challenges. Yet, she always smoothed the lines on her face to speak gently to me and my siblings as we grew up. She gave up her own life and faded existence just to give us a life she never had the privilege to enjoy herself, something I wouldn’t trade for gold in this life or the next.

I remember the nights when we had little to eat. She would give up her portion, taking just a few spoons from our plates around the table, then smile and declare she was full. What more can I say about the humble life she lived just to provide me and my siblings with a life that could stand alongside our peers? Or the mornings when we were sent off to school, sometimes with barely anything in our stomachs from the night before, yet promised a meal waiting for us upon our return, though I knew there was nothing left in the cupboards except piles of debts left unsettled, all while she struggled to provide for our daily needs.

And just like every one of her promises, our stomachs were blessed with meals. We never knew how they were provided, nor how the debts incurred on our behalf were eventually paid off.

I can never forget the fear etched on her face when she was told that the child she had left hale and hearty at home, to quickly get something from her church by the house, under the watchful eye of a Samaritan neighbor, had just collapsed. Her cries still ring in my ears years after that day. Nothing could soothe her; instead, she lamented the suffering she endured from his birth; the days spent in the hospital, the two days she lay comatose. Such is the agony of motherhood.

The endless nights at the general hospital are etched vividly in memory; her unwavering faith declared softly and firmly as doctors warned her she might be taking a lifeless child home, the prayers offered with desperate agility despite an empty stomach. She was determined to give everything it took for her son to be revived.

Her joy upon finally being discharged after months of sleepless nights on the cold, unwelcoming floors of the hospital, was immeasurable, despite how much she had faded physically from the stress of caring for a sick child.

The discharge didn’t instantly cancel her fears, as the numerous vigils she kept to ensure her child was still breathing showed a silent watch, as if the breath itself might be snatched away from her watchful eyes in the darkest hours of the night.

The sacrifices and unending gifts were spontaneous as we grew up, with her making upfront payments of school fees as if investing in a personal project. Well, just like she says, “The phase of motherhood is an unending investment to be reaped in old age.” And just like a wish blown into the wind, it all came to pass like the rushing of a mighty gale. The proud moment of seeing her children grow from teenagers to adults in their matriculation gowns and my convocation regalia, nothing could stop the joy of my mother. It all happened; the investment paid off with massive dividends.

These sacrifices have not gone unnoticed. The efforts were not wasted. Now, the messy investments planted in muddy soil are yielding great fruits, giving back to the hands that nurtured us with great love and care. With grateful hearts and outpouring love, we return the nights she spent in agony with good results and academic achievements, all while upholding the morals and cultures inculcated in us.

We are tied to our mother’s throngs, relieving her of the pains, stress, and challenges she encountered on her path to giving us a good life. We may never repay those eventful years of her life, but we can surely make her remaining years worthwhile, with pampering and caregiving back to her the soft life she unconditionally gave to us without flinching or turning back.

This is not a regular story of love. It is filled with memories of laughter mixed with tears, painful yet full of hope. It is the story of a man with a womb, shouldering the responsibilities of two parents. It is a story encapsulated by sleepless nights and countless encounters, all to become a mother. It is the greatest recount of love any man can receive on earth, not platonic, not romantic, yet filled with unmeasurable pleasure. It is a mother’s love.