Dear Mama
Chrysanthemum flowers stared right back at me from beneath my window, summer was finally here. The humid air and the harsh rays of the sun were more than an indication of the changed weather. Blares of horns filled Lagos’s streets, with drivers and passengers stuck in traffic that seemed to have no end, shouting angrily at each other. Lagos is a city where everyone gets angry at anyone for no reason.
“Madi” My mom shouts out my name from downstairs, a heavy sigh escapes from my lips, leaving a hefty heart. The wooden door to my room swings open.
“You aren’t ready yet”? She asked staring me up and down, I was in a yellow sweatshirt and blue jeans, it was too colourful for what was happening today. She wobbles to my closet and picks out a black dress which I had hidden deep inside, “here, wear this”, she sniffles, her tears-rimmed eyes looking anywhere but at me.
Mama was trying so hard to be strong for me, but I could see the littlest of things even though she tried to hide it from me. From her shaky hands which held the dress, to her eyes which became red from trying to hold back tears for too long, and how her voice trembled a bit when she spoke. I walked towards her, my feet making a creaking noise on the wooden floor.
Mama was a short woman, so I stood at least a foot taller than her, I inherited my height from my Father, but that didn’t deter her from giving both me and my father a piece of her mind whenever she wanted, but this woman in front of me, looking so dishevelled, broken and numb, in an oversized black dress flowing all the way down to her feet shatters my heart into a million broken pieces.
“Mama”, I take her slightly wrinkled hands into mine, the dress still being held tight. It was hot in Lagos, but Mama’s hands felt cold. Mama was like a blanket fort in the cold, a wet damp cloth during summer. Mama was whatever you wanted her to be at whatever given time. As long as you were okay, Mama was too. But this time, it wasn’t like that, and at the realization that it wouldn’t be like that anymore, my heart sank even further.
My arms wrap around her small frame, “What are you doing Madi, we need to get ready, we can’t afford to be late”, her voice just scarcely a whisper, I tighten my grip around her, “It’s okay Mama, it’s okay”, I hush her. We stood like that for a while, and then her shoulders quivered as I heard the quiet short sharp intake of breaths. It started quietly, her hands tightening on my sweatshirt as she lets out quiet sobs over my shoulder, my palm gliding up and down over her back, it was heart-wrenching, Mama never cried, not in my presence at least, not in my 16 years of existence, she never cried not until now, not until my father passed away. And there we stood in my messy teenage room, with me comforting my mom and the sounds of the hustling and bustling of Lagos in the background.
Feifei is a 19-year-old undergraduate, studying mass communication at Lagos State University. She spends her days attending lectures, listening to music, watching movies, being a ghostwriter, reading novels and trying to write. She’s a writer, anything you say or do may be used in a story.
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