You remind me of my mother

 

My mum has been gone for nearly six years but I remember her every day. There is always a moment in the day when she comes fully to mind, other times fleetingly. Every day since she left, I have remembered her. She has reminded me of herself through her life, her love, her exceeding warmth and discipline. More than anything else, she embodied in all her children and those who encountered her, selflessness.

Mrs. Josephine Amodu of blessed memory, an only child of her own mother, adopted many children including her mechanics, her hairdresser, her tailor and the guards on her street. She would cook as if there were fourteen people in the room even if we were only seven. Any passer-by, worker, washman, all ate her rice and beans and fish, Amala and Egwusi or whatever she had cooked. Mrs. Amodu never cooked a different pot of soup for her domestic staff or for workers. Everyone eats from the same pot. It was from my mum that I learnt that if a painter has earned his wages, you also feed him. It is a mantra. Cleaner, washman, you pay them, then you feed them because according to my mother, food is a gift from God. You must share if you have enough. It is a form of charity. Many other things that make my mother special resonate on a daily basis. Often I see it in my children, sometimes my friends, other times members of my family and some other times I see it in the kindness of strangers.

Mrs. Amodu was an epitome of kindness. I remember her daily; here are some of the ways through those I encounter daily.

You remind me of my mother when you are not arrogant or self-entitled. She abhorred arrogance and was an example of humility.

You remind me of my mother when you are selfless. When you think of other people before yourself. When you make sacrifices, when your every word does not hang on your achievements; when everything that happened that was successful is not all about you. We were taught to always give other people opportunities to shine, not aggressively presenting yourself as the only one who knows or even refusing to give credit to those who made things possible.

You remind me of my mother when you are a gourmet cook. I read the autobiography of a leading European comedian many years ago and what struck me was how he celebrated his mother’s cooking. If she gathered a batch of toothpicks, she could season it so well that you did not even know it was toothpick; Edible toothpick! My mum was a master chef. I learnt to cook from her. But I can never be the cook she was, although I aspire every day.

You remind me of my mother if you are an effortless excellent cook. Mrs. Amodu cooked as if she was playing. It was a joy to watch her cook. She took her cooking for guests, her family, and her friends seriously. She gave it her energy, her love and her time. She was so good in salting a pot of soup and measuring the ingredients that she never used a spoon. She tilted the seasoning container and knew when to stop, or used her fingers. She was always spot on. The soup would be finger-licking delicious. I learnt cooking sans ingredient measurement.

You remind me of my mother if you are a care giver, burden bearer or counsellor. Mrs. Amodu was always settling marital problems, family squabbles etcetera. My mum was famous for travelling long distances to settle issues even in the middle of the night when she felt a marriage was threatened. She turned up at great personal risk. Mrs. Amodu was a medical personnel, midwife and community nurse delivering many babies across the nation from Kaduna to Katsina, Makurdi, Lokoja and Zaria. I remember her on call duty visiting with students at midnight at the ABU Zaria staff clinic, some of them suicidal, others high on alcohol and mixtures. She remained a caring individual till God called her. When you care, you certainly remind me of my mother.

You remind me of my mother when you have a gift-giving disease; something I imbibed from my mother. My mum will travel from Makurdi to Zaria to deliver yams to a stranger who her children told her had been kind to them. She never forgot her children’s birthdays turning up with an Aso-oke from her gift box. Mrs. Amodu made her way to a baby’s naming, a funeral ceremony etcetera with two cartons of water, juice and so on. She never turned up empty handed at these events. Mrs. Amodu was a special woman with special qualities; a saint in my heart, a woman of many parts, a good human being. Of course like everyone else she had her shortcomings but they were overshadowed by her kind heart and goodness.

Every day I remember my mum. Imbibing a number of her qualities keeps her alive in my heart. Meeting those who carry these excellent values in life’s way makes me happy. They all remind me of my mother.

Eugenia Abu