MAMAHOOD

Ijedi managed to fetch enough thistle to properly bundle the firewood she had gathered. The noonday sun had caught up with her early morning farming routine.

A little past dawn every day, she, accompanied by her son, Enyinna, would head for the farm. Those were one of the many moments that rooted an abiding connection between the young mother and her child. They would tend the crops in the only but disputed piece of land her late husband bequeathed to them upon his early departure from among the living, fetch firewood for cooking, and hay for the goats, then sell some food items at a popular evening market by the village entrance. Though they barely had enough to eat, their lives were quiet and happy. Her only surviving brother-in-law, Ejike, in alliance with her mother-in-law had succeeded in grasping all that she inherited from the deceased, and their sticky claws were still unceasingly itching for the little farmland, the one thing that was a source of living for her and her child.

Presently, as she was concluding the day’s routine and getting set for home in the accustomed company of her son, there approached some young men armed with cutlasses. They looked aggressive and introduced themselves as a syndicate affiliated with Ejike. They came with an order to seal off the farmland. She saw no need for a dispute, after all, a woman of her sort was very incapable of physically engaging such hefty creatures. Ejike had taken his malevolent battle right into the bedrock of her survival, and she was not strong enough to fight back. She was only strong enough to be a woman. She fleetingly thought about how shameful it was that the village heads had connived with Ejike to pass a judgment in her absence, a judgement that sought to take food away from her mouth and that of her son. Issues concerning the land had lingered so long in deliberations among the Council of Elders, and she had felt nearly resolute that the good and honourable elders before whom her daily plights of widowhood was unhidden would let her retain ownership of what rightfully belonged to her. A little anxiety however was bred when some leading voices among the elders surreptitiously offered to help her only if she was willing to offer her body. She felt disgusted, not at the vile desires of these old and expiring men, but at the inordinate possibility that she was expected to bask in immoral undertakings in order to secure what was known to be hers. She nevertheless tried to assure herself that there were still good fellows among the Council who would not be influenced to rob her of her inheritance.

It was at the morning of that take over that she realised how wrong she had been. The unanimous decree of the Elders, the highest verdict in the land, had robbed her of her last piece of bread. She went home with her firewood hefted on her head while her eight-year-old son followed behind, carrying the farming tools along with the fetched hay. She pretended nothing was wrong as she trod with feet shod with well-worn slippers on the dirt path from the bush, but she was breaking up inside. It could be seen in her eyes, bright with unshed tears.

Years after that morning passed. Life became drastic for them. Having no farmland, but labouring in another man's farmland for a pittance made hell seem more bearable than her present reality. She was not happy that her son at such an early age was constrained by life to obligatorily work and fend for himself. It was no longer easy for her to take care of her child. In her dark moments, she sobbed prayers for death to come and claim her, to take her to her husband’s side. She would looked at her son’s face and she realized that even though her bones were broken, her spirit was still strong. A man at the demise of his wife may find comfort in the arms of another woman or in the brew of wine, but she as a woman and mother could not entertain any other choice but to be strong. She had to be unreservedly bent on catering to the welfare of her son. And she was willing to bend even she breaks.

And then, four years passed, and the man, whose farm they laboured in, informed Ijedi of his son’s interest in Enyinna, to take him to the City to have a better landscape of toiling. Ijedi was torn. She wanted to keep her child by her side, to be the only one responsible for his wellbeing. But she knew the City was the better option for him. She cried, sobbing a prayer to the heavens to guide, protect and prosper her son in his virgin voyage far away from home.

On the morning Enyinna was to leave, her prayers gushed like torrents from a rainy sky. Her supplications were nothing more than blessings, requests from God and beautiful proclamations upon her son. She asked God to keep him safe and far away from untimely demise. She prayed for him to emerge uncommonly successful in all good things his hands found to do. She vigorously gestured, throwing her hands about, and perspiring. Her voice was loud and unrestrained. As though the prayers were not enough, she pulled her son to her body, passionately grabbed his head, ruffled his hair and began to weep until her sobs turned into a wail. She sobbed until Enyinna was pried from her grasp, and she continued murmuring her prayers as she watched her son, sad-faced and unsure, depart from her.

That was affection expressed the only way a mother could, an action that explained the difficulty and trauma of goodbye, juxtaposed with an intense desire of a mother to see her son succeed and become a man.