When you turn into your mother…

As a girl, I had mixed feelings about my mother. I loved her without question, but I didn’t always like her. She was African. I mean that says everything. So for all her seeming decorum, she had drama for days.

Recently, I realised I was turning into her. I was washing dishes, having been hit by a moment of insanity as I have 5 pairs of hands who owe me their lives that could do the chore with varying degrees of professionalism. I broke a cup and with the volume, only achievable only by a mother of boys shouted;

“Nani aliweka hii kikombe hapa? ona sasa imevunjika, haya, toeni hata hizo ziko kwa cabinet mpange hapa zivunjike zote. Na nikienda kwa supermarket mnikumbushe ninunue zingine mvunje!” 

(“Who put this mug here? Look now it has been broken. Okay then, go and remove the ones in the cabinet, arrange them here so they can all be broken. When I go to the supermarket, remind me I buy some more so you can break them!”)

It is rather hard to translate from Kiswahili to English and not lose the snarkiness, so I opted to just use bad sentence structure.

My children did what any normal African children do in those scenarios they scattered with impressive speed abandoning their PS posts with amazing alacrity. The Heir was slow to the uptake so caught the brunt of his mothers angst and proceeded to sweep up the shards as I continued to mutter and mumble righteously.

” Eh, because we have so much money to… mumble, mumble… How many times have I told you to put things in their proper place?” That was accompanied by a cuff to the Heir’s head as he was unfortunate enough to pass within my mumble area.

See African mothers are never wrong. Ever. Giving birth is akin to achieving sainthood.  Plus it gives us unassailable scapegoats who can’t say anything in their defense. Speaking when your mother is shouting is a cardinal offense. Speaking when you mother addresses you needs the diplomatic timing of a veteran ambassador. If you speak too soon you are interrupting, if you speak at all you are rude. If you stay silent when asked a question, (despite having been told in no uncertain terms not to open your mouth) you are being rude. If you dare have an opinion, any opinion you must be on drugs. The only acceptable answer is yes ma’am, which in africanese is a contrite-looking I am scum nod. Never look her in the eye. Nod incessantly and look utterly repentant. Never ever cry, because she hasn’t yet given you a reason. If you cry too early you must be guilty of all manner of sins, not limited to the current one you are getting the tongue lashing for. Cry if the tongue lashing results in violence, but not too early because then she will be affronted and she will give you a real reason to cry. Never under any circumstance say anything when crying, it will only resort to more beating.

Wailing child: Pole sitarudia!!! (Sorry, I will not repeat this)

Arican Mother (at this point there is no mum, there is only Mother, with a capital ‘M”): Eh, wacha nikuchape vizuri ndio ukumbuke, kumbe ulijua unafanya vibaya? (Eh, let me beat you properly so you remember. So you knew you were doing wrong?)

Child: unaniumiza! (You are hurting me)

Mother: Wacha tupatie daktari kazi, nitalipa! (let us give the doctor some work, I will pay for it)

And then after she was done beating the stupid out of you, the infamous line

“This hurts me more than you.”

That was the one, that line was worse than the beating. At that point you want someone to beat on her so she can understand she couldn’t possibly be hurting more than you are. But your face only shows the I am scum look, because if she can see your thoughts, you go for a second round. Any form of defiance was seen as a challenge. I never won a challenge.

For gross offenses ( which means you were actually caught in the act), there was the psychological aspect. Where you got to choose your own cane. You would be sent outside to get a suitable cane. It had to be flexible enough to curve on the downward swing, make a whistling noise as it did so and not break as it came into contact with you with considerable force. That cane was a test. Bring one that was too weak and eons were added to your sentence. bring one that was too thick and eons were added for portraying your mother as cruel. And this was all before the spanking rules. Which could basically be translated to one commandment;

Thou shalt not make it hard for your mother to whop your ass.

So, do not try to avoid the whistling cane, make sure your ass is accessible. Do not try to be clever and wear excess clothing. Basically stay still and endure it just right. I think we were abused by the PC standards of today. Then afterward,  thank her with just the right amount of tearfulness, panga uso (arrange your facial expression) so she doesn’t feel like a monster and go forth and sin no more.

An African mother is fond of monologuing. All that is required of you in an arranged face and occasional sound effects. The talk is peppered with minefield questions like;

“Do your friends do that!”

Say yes and you will be questioned on the kind of company you have been keeping.

Say no and you will be asked why you are doing it if your friends have the good sense not to do it.

Keep quiet and you are being rude.

Then there is the Mum Look. This is the greatest thing I learned from my mother. That looks tells you to enjoy what you are doing because when we get home there will be dire consequences. That look loosens bladders chases away appetites and is the worst kind of mental torture. That look stopped all the sun from shining, birds from chirping and brought on drought and pestilence on our souls. It was accompanied by the soundtrack of impending doom.

While I do not spank my children with any regularity, they often wish I did. How do I know this? One of them told me to just spank him rather than punish him. Apparently, my punishments are cruel and unusual. Let me illustrate and you decide.

Eat sugar and you will have everything edible with sugar for the next week. Same goes for salt, milo and all other regulated substances. And to make it even more painful the menu will be adjusted to incorporate favorites. Chips, Burgers, KFC, Githeri ( yes that is a favorite in my house. I avoid it like the plague so of course, they love it contrary little things!)  Nothing is sacrosanct. The tears as even intrepid Pacman could not enjoy sugar laced Githeri and I thought he could eat fried metal!

Scenario two

My boys decided bedtime was a suggestion and not an edict. After weeks of bedtime arguments. I chose a Friday night to address the issue. They come home happy for the weekend. I watched them run around like lunatics, attempt to decapitate each other, break something, basically a normal Friday evening. I made their day by telling them we were staying up all night. I had taken an afternoon nap. By 9.00pm, the weak link, Pacman aka the Termite was dozing off drunkenly. I woke him up by wiping his face with cold water. Midnight was heralded with pleas to sleep. 2.00Am was accompanied by tears as their African Mother ensured they stayed awake using cold water, short walks, loud noise and the threat of the cane. 4.00am saw them asleep while seated upright. Not even cold water worked. I left them there and proceeded to wake them up at 6.30am. Noone complained when I sent them for a short afternoon nap. Their bedtime on school nights is 7.30pm for the younger ones and an hour later for the older one. There have been no complaints since then.

I learned a lot from my mother. How sarcasm is always the preferred option when answering simple questions. The princess once asked for my slippers to use in the shower. She has this thing where she asks for something and then proceeds to colonise it. I had gotten those slippers after a short stay in hospital where I came back with a parasite, I mean another child.

Princess: Mum can I use your slippers, nataka kuoga (I want to take a shower)

Her African Mother ( tired due to nightime demands of the parasite): Unajua vile utafanya… ( you know what you will do…)

Clueless Princess about to get served: eh he.

Mother:  Usome umalize shule, alafu ukatiwe, uingie box. Alafu  ulete huyo kijana hapa to meet the family, alipe mahari, uolewe, after two year hivi, ushike mimba, upate labor ukimbizwe hospitali. You make sure its a good hospital so they give you slippers. Alafu uoge. ( Finish school, let a man court you, bring said man ove to meet the family, he pays bride-price, you get married. After about two years, you get pregnant, go into labor and are rushed to a hospital. Make sure its a good hospital so they give you your own set of slippers. Then you can use them to take a shower.)

I wonder why they bother to ask for anything.

Our mothers were far from perfect but they must have gotten something right. I look at our generation and there is ingrained respect that cannot be uprooted. For the most part, we are not an entitled lot. How could we be? We know we are owed nothing. Our mothers taught us that.