A Mother’s Love

When I was small boy, I had a dream. It was not one of those grand dreams of becoming a doctor or amassing great wealth. It was to own a particular piece of clothing. We called it kamũbuto ga tũmĩkanda. Loosely translated, it meant a small trouser with straps. It was what today is referred to as dungaree and judging from how popular it is I would not be bragging if I say my superior fashion taste came before its time. Anyhow, I eventually got my dungaree (and I treasured it, although it was pink), thanks to the unrelenting efforts of my beloved mother.

Setting out the plates on the floor, she would serve all of us, each according to his or her size and respective appetite. My big brother and I of course, would ravenously eat half of everything. We never missed a meal in all our lives and when I look at my mother today, I am simply amazed at how she did it.

My mother never let us out of the house without shoes. This was at a time when other kids in our village only wore shoes on Christmas day. At a time when there were no mitumba (second hand clothes), she always ensured we were well dressed in brand new clothes. When mitumba came, we got camera (which is the term used for premium quality mitumba – selected from the bale first before the masses swoop in).

I don’t remember my mother caning me or any of my siblings as a form of discipline. The only thing I recall was a particular pinch which she would inflict on the part of the arm that usually sags in plus size women. The pinch was unique in that its pain would linger for long minutes after it had been delivered. The lack of spanking did not compromise our discipline judging from the impeccable manners inherent in my siblings and I (although in some instances, I turn out to be a black sheep).

One night when I was about ten, I woke up moaning in the middle of the night with a severe stomach ache. My mother rushed in and enquired what the matter was. She then went to the kitchen (which was outdoors in a separate structure) and came back with a piece of cloth soaked in water. She proceeded to dab my belly and within a few minutes, the pain was gone and I went back to slumber land with a smile on my face. I later often used my mother’s method of cooling a tummy ache for many years when I suffered severe acidity.

There was no hospital, dispensary, clinic, or any other form of health care facility in the village where we grew up. The only health centre available to us was in another town where we had to go by bus. It was known by the strange name of njini (I have no idea what it was derived from) but it was here that my mother faithfully took us every time we fell sick. I can remember her lovingly placing me on her lap as the nurse injected me with one of the killer needles of those days. They were so big you could clearly see the hole through which the medicine would flow into your blood stream. I guess they had to be because they were reusable and used to be boiled in water as a way of disinfecting them.

I think my mother did a decent job of bringing us up because we are now all stable with children of our own. She is now retired and has been in relatively good health until a few years ago when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Cancer is a really bad disease because even as you fight it, it fights back. She has been treated locally and also in India where she is currently on her third visit. Her doctors say that her chances of full recovery are good but as a family, we have run really low on the required finances.

It is therefore my humble appeal to all of you friends and well wishers to support us with whatever you are able to so that my mother can be treated and return back home to us. You can use the Mchanga platform below for any contribution. Thank you for your support.