Twenty three years and I still cringe when my mother calls me by my full names. I’m pint-sized so I will save the “I am a fully grown man” shenanigans and get right down to it.
About a week ago (does stupid Shmurda dance on keyboard) I saw something that well, brought my thoughts to a near standstill very few things can do this. Top on that list is a wine red jaguar XF, a white C200 Kompressor, and a light skin lady preferably in a short black dress/skirt (that’s way inched up exposing non-cellulite well toned thighs that have never found their way inside a USA flag branded legging) behind the wheel as I peep from my vantage point – otherwise known as public transport. Such is life.
What I saw wasn’t sexual, so my apologies to all the perverts out there that expected a raunchy post. Calm down your testosterone levels and to the females keep your fertile eggs firmly locked in their fallopian tubes if they managed to sneak out – otherwise keep them ovaries tight. It was more of a quote the ones you come across when you’re on an intense expedition out in the thick jungle known as Instagram. It went something like:
“Remember that you have never lived a single day in your life without me but I have lived many years without you.”
This was a message from a mother to what I’d like to imagine a recalcitrant teenager. Let me pause and let the gravity of that statement sink in. An ideal setting for this post would be by a dimly lit bar with mahogany counters and a glass of single malt whiskey in hand – not too strong but oaky. The glass would have two ice rocks sitting pretty at the bottom and you’d swirl it – lost deep in thought at some profound truth, a truth that knocked you at the back of your head. Remember Rafiki, the annoying dancing monkey in the movie The Lion King – that’s what I am talking about.
First, there is no such thing as the perfect son. Perfection is an art we left to the Disney princesses and Hollywood tear-rolling, award winning, heart churning blockbusters. I somehow feel like I’ve deviated from the topic so let me get back on it – where was I? No, not short skirts and exposed thighs. Aah, yes mothers.
Whenever I walk in to the kitchen and find my mum standing over the cooker wielding that brown wooden stick it’s nostalgic. I go back to the days when I’d force her to involuntarily participate in a game of cops and robbers. She would eventually give up, or feign defeat and when I let my guard down she would grab me by the collar and live true to the word of God himself – it’s safe to say no rods were spared in that home. My whimpers and cries would act as the soundtrack to the movie most of you know as discipline. My butt got more wood than Karura forest (insert Chris Rock voice).
From a very tender age I could not understand the correlation between pain and love. But over the years I came to understand that there were two kinds of pain. Yes, I hurt physically and would sulk for days on end. I would go out and play with my friends putting on a smile and a brave face like nothing happened. I did not look at the pain my mother went, the pain of a mother. She would see into the future far beyond my years. She would project a trajectory based on my behavior and it would hurt her even more to imagine what I would become. This pain was transferred to me – even though I could not understand why. Now I do. Now I appreciate the love that only a mother can have. Even when I thought she was being unfair, that she hated me and I vocally aired my grievances she would still keep my butt hurting. Hers was a lesson she was hell bent on teaching – that even if it hurts you should always do the right thing. I haven’t yet got to the point where I can call her and say “Look mama we made it” but at least I can call her and say “Mama I love you.”
This is for the mothers out there. We appreciate and love you.
Here’s a toast to the only woman in the world who will love you no matter how many times you break her heart.
I love you mum.