A Yoruba Mother

It's really strange and funny - figuring out now - how guilty I'd felt when the end of the year result came and I'd failed. It's possible you had a good result but nothing really mattered to our parents if you were not first, second or third. You failed if you never made those three spots. 

Childhood was really amazing. Kids reflect substantial percentages of our early lives. You could look into a kid's life and find pieces of how you'd acted. 

I was with a kid recently who didn't want either of his parents to come for his end of the year party. He came out straight from the shoulder that he wouldn't be having any award and he hated it when his parents gave him that look (u know). He mentioned progression as the only thing  he wanted and not rounding up on some top three list (the same thing I would have said back then to console myself). So, I followed him instead and surely he didnt get any award. I'm sure he hasn't presented his result slip yet to any of his parents. 

But he didn't do worse. At least he didnt edit his result. I changed my result sometimes from twelfth position to seventh. I took twelfth because the two classes were merged and originally, I couldn't have gone beyond fifth if it were just my class. That's the least I have gone tho (So you won't think I was one terrible dunce). 

These times were the few times I'd sit and think about how serious and hardworking I'd be the coming term. Those penitent times where just a slip - given by some teachers - predicted how bad my life would end. At home, I would wholly accept whatever chore thrown at me; report back to whoever gave me the task and ask if there was more. 

It was worse when your friend, who took the first position, lived nearby. He became your idol! Every damn thing you did was wrong even if it was what you had always done. If you had a yoruba mother or guardian, it was much worse. The tanning, yoruba mothers gave was terrible. She'd whooped your ass so much you started believing you was adopted. Oh! Your biological mother had dumped you near a hospital immediately you were born because she had nothing to take care of you with. You were a mistake! Maybe she tried aborting, but failed. She didn't need another burden so she left you in a Digestive biscuit carton, and placed you by the main entrance of the hospital, slightly above the ramp. These are thoughts that graze your head when you get severely beaten especially from a Yoruba mother. 

The hiding is much o but always learn how to avoid her chastening with words. You outrightly learn to hate yourself after a yoruba mother lashes you with insults. Hiding hurts, heals eventually and might leave a painless scar but words dont! The gash from insults - widens each moment those words are remembered. 

Okay! Imagine coming back from an errand and you are exhausted af. While walking home, the only thing on your mind is rushing into the kitchen and devouring that meal you ate just little from - before leaving - because your Dad and mom was home and you wouldn't want to hear shii like it's only food you know. 

Everywhere is gravely silent. You believe your mom - who is still home - is sleeping. You almost fall because you are wrestling with taking off those shoes as quickly as possible, while hasting into the kitchen, you fling your leather wrist watch on the sofa, peep into the direction of your mother's bedroom and conclude she's napping - since you heard nothing (Mothers hardly maintain absolute serenity however. There's always a drawer to pull). 

You get into the kitchen and, bless God, the meal is there! You pick the spoon you'd left on the other plate - capsizing the one with the food, took off the plate covering - in less than a second like a horny bastard unclipping a girl's bra. You merely wipe your hands across the curvy part of the spoon and immediately start scooping the contents in the plate.

While everything happens in a flash, you did not know that your mother has been in the pantry, doing - only God knows what! (Mothers wil sha have something to do).

She had seen everything from the moment your first feet landed on the kitchen floor. 

You are about swallowing the last spoonful of rice shaped like Zuma Rock, when her voice says sha ma rora. Nkan ti ama n ri e si niyen! Afi ounje. It's only food you know, book? Iro. 

You start sweating like a Christmas goat (heretofore, I haven't seen a Christmas goat - sweating), sudor starts issuing from within, you awkwardly drag your lips across the spoon oval and scrape the contents in it since it's kinda late leaving the meal. She caught you! Your mouth is the dust parker, the dust is the food contents while the spoon is the broom. 

To avoid this happening, you instinctively learn to play by the rules of the house, if you were the type who came back home late, you stopped. It was like appeasing a deity.

Anyway,  I really don't know what to tell this kid tho. Maybe I should nag about his not Making the top three of the class or just strengthen his belief on progression only. Progression matters afterall.