Mothers: Because You Get Only One
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, should be carried away to heaven on a soft foamy cloud surrounded by angels with harps playing them their favourite Solomon Mkubwa and Rose Muhando tunes.
For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.
For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens’ innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives – and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor’s orders – or because of school fees.
For standing strong behind men who did or didn’t deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives’ sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens’ university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometer away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens – after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.
And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say, “I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!”
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn’t die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.
Because you only get one. And when she’s gone, she’s gone.
By: J Adongo Ligare
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