On Motherhood…
Short stories on motherhood-related issues
“Orisa bi iya kosi laye o, orisa bi iya sowon” — King Sunny Ade
(translation: there is no deity like a mother, a deity like a mother is scarce).
In celebration of Mother’s Day this year, these are short stories about motherhood and some of the other sides to the regular women who double as mothers, partly inspired by the lives of different women I know.
Laraba sat on the wooden trunk her mother had given her as a going-away present shortly after she got married and had gone back home to pack the rest of her things. She watched the young men who were helping her load her stuff into the moving van and let her mind drift to the moment she made up her mind.
“Are you mad?” he had bellowed, rising from the couch to slap her across the cheek. She raised her hand to shield her face and ducked, as she had done so many times before — these moves now came as easy to her as striking her came to him. In the long minutes after Mike hit her, Laraba stayed on the floor and replayed all the events of that evening. Could she really not ask her husband a simple question anymore?
The fiasco had started when she got a great job offer and accepted it against his advice. Mike had quite a good job but he was very uncomfortable with the idea of his wife earning more than he did and had become increasingly resentful as she rose through the ranks. As the recipe for disaster that the mix of jealousy and resentment is, there was an issue every other day. Over time, she had made various excuses for him but now, she did not care anymore. She knew what she had to do and started making plans later that night.
She no longer wanted to use her children as an excuse to stay with him; all three of them were grown now and at different times, had asked her questions she did not have answers to; she clearly was not “shielding” them as she had thought she was. If Laraba was being honest with herself, what had kept her trapped all this time was fear. She could not bear the thought of her children seeing her broken and did not think she could protect or adequately care for them if they thought she was weak. If only she knew earlier that she could only protect her children by first looking out for herself.
“Che Che” he called out, unable to remember her full name. He had not seen or heard from her since they graduated from the university a few years ago. That was not strange as they were not particulary close friends — they only chatted occasionally. Chenemi had also carefully avoided every social gathering she thought at least one person she knew might attend.
She turned around slowly, wondering who could be calling her by that old nickname. “Hi” she replied coldly, not recognizing him immediately. He smiled and introduced himself. She was slightly embarrassed that she did not remember him but she quickly got over it. He had changed a lot and was definitely more handsome than she remembered. They talked for a few minutes, exchanged phone numbers then he offered to drop her off at home.
She entered the living room and found it oddly quiet. There were no toys on the floor and it was unusually tidy. In that moment, she knew, the way mothers do, that something was wrong. Dropping the bags she had carried in and kicking off her shoes in one swift motion, she dashed into the bedroom on the right, the one her mum slept in. There was no one in there and the bed was neatly laid. As she turned to leave the bedroom to go to hers, she spotted her mum’s phone on the nightstand. Chenemi began to panic when she got to her bedroom and found it just the way she left it earlier. Where were her mum and her baby? Why weren’t they at home? What had happened to them?
She was only gone for a few hours. She was standing in the doorway of her room when her phone started ringing. Her eyes scanned the room in search of her purse and she found it inside one of the bags she had dropped by the front door. The trepidation made her hands shake and she dropped it twice, trying to undo the clasp. She finally got her phone out and tapped it to answer. The person on the other end of the line was still speaking when, just as a branch snaps, she fell to knees and wept, the guilt choking her. She blamed herself for thinking it was okay to stay out a little longer. Maybe, if she had been home, just maybe, her baby would not have been injured.
Dooshima sat on the window nook hugging her legs, rocking back and forth and watching as the raindrops caressed the leaves in the garden a few feet away from the window. Her head ached terribly and her eyes burned, as she had cried all the way to the clinic. This would be her fifth session with this therapist but she did not think she was making any progress. She had left midway through a session with the former one and never went back.
After three miscarriages, her baby was here. Why did she still feel empty? Her pretty baby girl, Amira, arrived on a bright morning about five months ago. Dooshima knew that having a newborn required a lot of work but she did not expect to feel this inadequate. She did not feel like she was doing well enough at this thing called motherhood. Worse still, she felt no connection to this little human who fully depended on her to survive — she did not even feel the least bit dependable and could barely take care of herself these days. It was so much easier to love the child before she arrived and needed her for everything.
Her husband had suggested therapy when it became clear that she was dealing with much more than “baby blues” and he had been very supportive but she always felt he did not understand her. She had also struggled to accept help from him or any other person, ignoring the fact that she was indeed overwhelmed and instead, feeling guilty for outsourcing a responsibility she thought should come naturally to her.
Idara, the therapist asked how she was doing but she could not respond, she just sat there staring at nothing. She brought her a box of tissue and a bottle of water. Still unable to speak, Dooshima nodded her thanks, blew her nose and drank the water. Shortly after, she moved to the sofa so they could have their session. Idara asked her a few questions, to which she nodded or shook her head in response while she took notes. To round up, the therapist asked her if she thought she could do anything differently in the coming week and for the first time that evening, Dooshima spoke.
She had made up her mind to try to bond with her precious little girl. She would no longer feel bad about the things she did not she was doing well enough and focus on those she could and on getting better at them. Dooshima had no clue how but she was going to love this child and give her best to her.
Motherhood, according to my closest friend, is the most exhausting and yet, the most exciting and amazing task. I think it is extremely beautiful that these women show up and show out in spite of everything the world throws at them. These stories are only a small fraction of the millions of untold stories.
