In my secondary school years in CDSS Ojo, Joys of Motherhood by Buchi Emecheta was one of the books we treated, the book told a compelling story of a beautiful Igbo woman called Nnu Ego who gave her life to raise her children in a merciless colonial society, after the death of her first child, she devotes her life in educating her oldest son, trusting that he will support her and help educate his siblings. Unfortunately, he failed, abandoning his family to pursue life "Abroad." Her husband who usually returned home drunk and useless goes to marry a second and later a third wife even though he earns below the minimum wage. He was forcefully enrolled by the British army during WWII to fight an enermy he didn't even know. He went, he saw, his body returned but he left his fable mind behind. Torn between two cultures and unable to adapt, she dies at the side of road, unwanted, unloved and alone.
In Yoruba Tradition, it is believed that the woman is a distinct and pure portal for the creation of life. There is no human that works the earth, the good and evil alike that didn't proceed out of a woman. In our traditional society women are expected to be proactive, She girds her loin with strength and strengthens her arm as she sets out at dawn to create her own economic independence, It is believed that a woman's duty should include domestic duties like farming and skilled craft production and marketing, in her entreprise she finds fulfillment, a woman's work is never done. However, raising children is the essence of motherhood, the experience of marriage and motherhood dominates the life and identity of most women. Women who are mothers are obligated above other duties to mind the home and raise children that will bring glory and honour to themselves as individuals; to thier household as a unit and to the society as a body, the atrocity of a wayward child is blamed on the mother.
It is the stories the mother shares with her children that they learn from, they pick the positive and also the negative from these tales. Afterall, a fruit that falls from a tree is of the tree and in turn becomes the tree from which it ripen and falls, reflecting on this I remember all the stories from her life my mother shared with her children, though she wasn't an avid narrator of folk tales, like many folklore shared under the moonlight her life's story was always worth its weight in wisdom and from her stories I learnt the value of compassion, courage and willingness to explore beyond life boarders. A dear friend also narrated how her mother will call her and her siblings to her, ask them to kneel before her as she bends to enmbrace each child in her bossom, with her mouth she names the individual trait of each child and pours blessings upon them accordingly. These prayers, she said moulded her unbreakable faith in her path and at every turn she sees the prophecy of her mother come to light.
A Mother is like a tree, she gives her fruits and shade unconditionally regardless of she getting watered or given her due reward or if she lays to sleep without wages for her labour in the life of her children, nevertheless the virtuous labour of a mother never goes to waste, her children will eat from it. The joys of motherhood remains in the fulfilment of her labour not in the reward. This is the reason why "Òrìsà bí Ìyá òsi laye."
No comments:
Post a Comment