Dear Mama

My mama knew if she raised a king she would never be a slave. So she was always home raising her voice against any vice that courted me, not drunk in bars raising glasses and toasting to vanity. My mama told me some actions deserve Question Marks. So when politicians incited us to kill those not from my tribe she told me ’… only a FOOL won’t STOP until he puts another being into a COMMA.’

Mama taught me that ‘…before you call it a blessing make sure you didn’t sin to get it!’ She taught me honesty as the best policy and compassion as the only definition for humanity. She raised me to be a gentleman, with enough respect to regard you and still confident enough not to let you step on me.

The woman who raised me is special, not because she is just mother, but because she has a special relationship with God. So whenever mama prays extraordinary things happen. I mean, have you seen me? I am a walking miracle, her answered prayer.

My mama was absolutely compassionate. If you slept in the couch, you will wake up in bed, well tucked in. She spat on a handkerchief to wipe your face if you hadn’t washed it well. If she ever tried to remove anything that looks like dirt from your face she’d use her saliva. At times she’d even forget and try to wipe out birth mark for she wanted you to be flawless. She had special cups and plates for visitors. There were home decorations set aside for holidays like Christmas when we all had new clothes except her. Every new born baby would have a newly woven sweater. She’d buy oversize uniform with the aim of making you use it all along school as you grew older. She had a special drawer for keeping paper bags after shopping so you would use it to carry your books to school.

Some days even Superman is just Clerk Kent, that’s why I am NEVER into those fiction tales. I live with an all-time superhero, my mum is still a superwoman.  She never went to the fancy colleges, never did linguistics, but she has a doctorate in reading my mind and has mastered the art of speaking to the heart. She has touched many, not with hands but with her magical words.

My mama loves soul music, the kind we of my generation need for soul regeneration. It hurts a man to see his mother cry, it literally rips you off your humanity. I have seen my mum cry, and I felt my heart bleed molten acid. I have seen her struggle when odds were against her. I have seen people dismiss her and step on her. But hey mum, I have grown up to be a legend. I am making an empire, NOT just for myself, but mostly for you.

To all the mothers out there who keep trying to explain to their kiddos who God is, how they were born, why her sister is different and why Teacher Mary has two bumps in her chest, I celebrate you.

To all mothers out there whose backs alternate between ferrying firewood to cook for their family and carrying their babies. I celebrate you

Hail mothers who go fetching water at the pond with Toto on their backs, who toil in the smoke filled kitchens, who cover their kids in pieces from old blankets because they think Pampers is somebody’s name. I celebrate you.

Hail Women who struggle to create a family where the odds are pitted against her. Who cover the sofa sets in kitambaas otherwise meant for sweaters just so as to build a home. I celebrate you.

Hail single mums, Earth has not seen ladies as selfless as you. How you give up your lives, for that of your offspring. I celebrate you.

I raise my two hands (and both feet) to young and immature ladies who mess up and find themselves pregnant and opt to keep the babies, leaving the much preferred abortion route. You are a rare breed. How you offer to be mothers at such moments of trial is so amazing. I celebrate you.

I celebrate all mothers. Only you know how hard it is to transform a fugitive, mischievous, playful brat like me into an admirable Man Of Honor!

I drop my knees on the ground and raise a cup of porridge, making a toast for you Ketty Kakai Wanyonyi!

Happy Mothers Day!