Take Care of Your Mother.

By Ogiri John Ogiri. 

I wish my mother was alive. 

Honestly, some things wouldn't have been like this. 

I was just a child, a fragile, vulnerable SS1 student at St Joseph's College Ichakwu, near Ugbokolo, Benue State. She had taken me to the private school by herself in January 1999. I was the only one in a Secondary School. None of my younger siblings were in a secondary school yet. Some were too tender to be in school while others were in a primary school. The challenges were enormous. The survival odds were legion. But we had high hopes. We looked forward to a better future with her motherly presence and supports and sacrifices. Then by April, she took ill and died in December.

 Before she died on that fateful day in December, she had said to me, " my son, when I'm gone, please don't cry for me. Just take care of your siblings." Then she called her mother, my grandma, who was in the kitchen preparing meals for the day being Christmas boxing day. She said to her, " Enem, (meaning my mother), when I'm gone, raise this little boy for John" ( she was referring to my youngest brother, Raphael, who was barely four years old). Grandma nodded with tears streaming down her face as she returned to the kitchen while my mother closed her eyes back.

Soon, the dreaded hour arrived. It was time for her to go home. I was seated beside her in the room. In a last minute attempt to say goodbye, she asked me to hold her hands. Encircled by the whirlwind of fear, I feebly stretched my fragile hands, raised her up and then she breathed her last. Yes she died on me but I was still too young and inexperienced to understand what it meant to die. The time was 3:30pm Nigerian time. The place is Oladegbo, Edumoga-Ehaje. That is where she's from. Confused, I motioned to a female cousin of hers, who was sitting a few metres away from her bed, watching everything, to come. Aware of what had just happened, she quickly grabbed her from me and asked me to go outside immediately. It was then my grandmother's attention was called to the room.

I was still outside ruminating over what had just happened when my grandma came outside wearing a mournful look. On sighting me, she broke down and started crying in a wailing manner that alarmed the entire villagers to the death of her daughter, my mother. It was then It dawned on me that, indeed, I had lost my mother to the treacherous ruthlessness of death. It was painful to know that death had played a fast one on us. We were devastated. Our world had crashed. Soon, words were sent to Ingle Edumoga, my hometown, and other villages where our relatives lived to inform them about her death. The following evening, she was buried according to the Christian tradition in a 6ft deep grave dug just adjacent to the only Catholic Church in Oladegbo Edumoga. A distant cousin of mine, Mr Abakpa Onyeka from Adum Obotu, a skilled carpenter, designed and built the casket that was used to bury her. From that moment on, after the burial was over, grandma took over our welfare until she died in March, 2021. I'm grateful to her. Other kind relatives lent us their helpful interventions too. We're grateful to them too. 

But you see, I've learnt a lot of timeless lessons too since 1999. It is that no woman can help you or stand by you like your mother can and will. No matter how hard anyone tries, their efforts can never replace your mother's. 

Nobody can be a selfless replacement for your mother. Nobody can cover the miles your mother will be willing to take for your sake. 

So dear friends, if you're privileged to have your mother still alive, please do whatever it takes to keep her alive. Take care of her. 

The pain of losing a mother is indeed grave.

Oh mama, if you had been here, a lot of things would have turned out differently. It wouldn't have been like this. Pray for us your children. We've been going through a lot. We're still going through hell trying to survive and build a life for ourselves. Please don't turn your back on us mama. We know you're in a better place now smiling down on us saying " hold on my children, everything will be okay".

 By December 26th, 2022, it will have been 23 years since your painful demise.

Continue to rest in peace.