Mama, the Moon, and the Memories: Celebrating Happy Mother’s Day

I have decided to celebrate Happy Mother’s Day by taking you down memory lane to honour the ethos of African motherhood. Close your eyes and listen for a moment. You might hear the soft hum of your mother’s voice frying plantain in the kitchen, the soft wisdom of her bedtime stories by the light of a moon, or the rustle of her wrapper as she passed by. For most of us raised in African households, there is that profound, irreplaceable bond with our mothers because our mothers were the glue that kept the entire household intact through the shared memories and cultural heritage.

How the typical African mother is the living archive of culture

An African mother is not merely a symbol of love in African homes, but an institution. This is because they carry the load of tradition, the beat of language, and the song of old songs passed down from father to son. It is how they tie their headscarves to how they face adversity with pride. They taught us to speak our language when the rest of the world forced English. They taught us to kneel, to bow to elders, or to prostrate in a sign of respect, not punishment, but pride. They taught us that our heritage mattered, and in a world attempting to mould us, it was okay to remember what we were.

Remember the moonlit tales?

Who remembers sitting under the stars on reed mats, the moon bathing the compound in silver, as Mama told stories of the tortoise and his clever tricks? The stars would twinkle above us, and for those fleeting moments, we were transported to worlds where animals spoke, morals were clear, and wisdom was inherent in every sentence. These stories were not just fantasies but fables wrapped in moral precepts. “Don’t end up like Tortoise, the self-proclaimed wise one of the group,” she would sternly advise after telling how Tortoise fooled his way into a banquet and ended up with a fractured shell. Through those narratives, our mothers imparted to us humility, integrity, and the strength of consequences. And it wasn’t so much what was told, but how it was told. Her voice would climb and drop like music, her face a map of drama, her hands dancing to the beat of the story. It was art. Pure oral art.

What about discipline and love?

African mothers never had a shortage of discipline. A quick ‘bombastic’ side-eye could silence a room. A subtle grab for the slippers meant it was time to misbehave. But beneath the strictness was a love that was robust, protective, and unshakeable. Whenever we fell sick, Mama would wake up the whole night, applying cool cloths on our foreheads and praying in her heart. Whenever we achieved, in small things at that point, she would boast to all the neighbours who would stop to hear. Whenever we failed, she would sometimes bluntly tell us that there was still space for greatness, that we were from strong people, and that we had to try again. Her love wasn’t ever nice, but it was always real.

How can we forget the food, the aromas, and the comfort of home?

There is something about African moms and their food. You would walk in and instantly know what was being prepared on the stove. The aroma of jollof rice, egusi soup, or okra stew would greet you home like a warm hug. Food was an affectionate language, a way of caring and attachment. Our mothers would prepare wonderful big vats of food, not just for us but for the neighbours, relatives, church members, and the needy. And if you had the nerve to enter the kitchen without greeting, you could receive, “So you didn’t see me? No ‘good afternoon’ before eating?” That gentle reminder taught us manners and awareness, even as we stole bits of meat from the pot.

Those sacrifices too…

How do you measure the depth of a mother’s sacrifice? Those moments when she skipped meals so that we might eat. Those moments when she wore tattered clothes so that we might look smart for school. Those times when she cried secret tears in her room, and yet still stepped out smiling and singing. Some of our mothers were single parents, doing the work of two. Some were businesspeople who spent the whole day under the sun just to earn enough for school fees. Some were nurses, teachers, and entrepreneurs working every ounce of their strength to give us a better life than theirs.

Mother-Daughter and Mother-Son Bonds

African mothers raised daughters to be strong, resilient, and resourceful. They would say, “You’re not just being raised for yourself; you’re being raised for a family, for a future.” Some may argue about the weight this places on young girls, but there’s no denying that many African women learned courage and compassion first from their mothers. For boys, African mothers were the first taste of gentleness in a world that did not encourage boys to cry. They combed our hair, rubbed balm on our chest when we were sick, and showed us that toughness did not mean cruelty. Whether you were a boy or a girl, your mother was your first sanctuary and a soft place to land in a harsh world.

What about those proverbs and morning devotions?

“If a child washes his hands well, he will eat with elders.”

How many of us were weaned on a steady dose of early morning devotionals and proverbs? At dawn’s breaking, the home would resound with hymns such as

“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…”

Then Mama would bring out an old Bible and read aloud. She would pray for us one by one, calling our names, committing our futures to faith. Those mornings instructed us in spirituality, about placing ourselves in something larger.

The Laughter, The Pet Names, The Dancing in the House…

Mothers weren’t always so solemn. Remember how they used to call you names like “Omo mi,” “Ada m,” “Chukwuemeka,” or “My sugar banana”? Or how they used to break into dance whenever their favourite Sunny Ade or Osadebe tune came on? They could dance while turning Amala, gist while tying gele, and laugh at themselves while teasing your accent.

Now That We’re Older…
When we mature, we realize what we did not realize when we were kids. We realize the tension, the patience, the silent tortures, and the small joys they clung to. We understand now why Mama was so tightfisted about our friends, our choices, and our fates.

We’ve lost some of our mothers. Some of us are watching them grow old. Some of us are mothers ourselves now, uttering those very same words we used to roll our eyes at. The cycle continues.

How to make this Mother’s Day special…

Whether your mom is alive or asleep, close or far away, this Mother’s Day is a time to stop and honour the woman who gave you life and gave you herself.

Here are a few ways to make it special:

1. Call her: Don’t text. Call. Let her hear your voice.
2. Visit or gift: It does not have to cost an arm and a leg. It could be her favourite wrapper or soup ingredients.
3. Remind her of something she told you: watch her face light up as she remembers you were listening all along.
4. Thank her not only for the great deeds but also for the little ones: the night stories under the moonlight, the prayers, the food, and the love

African mothers may not have penned books, but they wrote our hearts. They may not have established empires, but they constructed us. And through us — our choices, our tales, our love — they live on.

To all mothers,

Happy Mother’s Day.