My mum would beat you for anything; look gloomy and she would ask you why you look like a dead person. Be extremely happy and she would ask, “It seems that you have stayed for quite a while without crying.”
If you found inner peace, soared and expressed yourself freely through your butt, she would give you a serious spanking that automatically restored you to factory settings; manufacturer’s default. She did not know how to press the reset button, she was the reset button. Her eyes alone would make a pregnant lionness abort.
I think my mother was scheduled to be a superpower. Blame corruption and the rich getting their way in everything. She now would be a Marvel or a DC Comics star and I would be in those phoros helping her hold the numerous awards she would bag but deforestation, soil erosion and rural-urban migration has made us continue walking behind cattle in Oloitokitok.
My mum was royalty. She owned her kingdom and I was her maidservants. Yes, I said that in plural because I was everywhere every time. She was every African leader I learnt in GHCRE; Kinjekitile Ngwale, Omwanika, Omulamuzi and the like. I wish she were Mansa Musa though. I was my mother’s remote control, I was her messengers because she would send me everywhere at the same time, I was her shoe lace manager, personal assistant and chief of staff.
Generally, I was her high esteemed slave. And what did I get in return? Nothing! She ocassionally bought me Fanta whenever we went to the village’s shopping centre; it doesn’t fully qualify to be called a town.
Soda was such a big thing to any child then. It was something grandiose, something extra-terrestrial. Soda was only for the rich. We would take Soda twice a year; during Easter and Christmas. Slowly, Due to high cost of living, Easter festivities faded out and our parents started telling us that sodas were harmful to young kids.
Kids would take more of Fanta and Sprite. Coke, Stoney and Krest were for the elderly. To us, those were hard drugs, talk of LSD and Crystal Meth. A kid taking Coke, Krest and Stoney was not just a village kid but a Nairobi ultra pro max elite with wireless charging technology.
My mom must pay. I will make sure she pays for the embarrasment she put me through as a kid. In any big event, my mum would find me narrating the movie, ‘The gods must be crazy’ to my peers. She would then grab me shouting, “Look at how dirty your ears are. How do you expect to marry a beautiful wife someday with dirty wax drooling from your ears? What kind of a Moran will you be?”
She would then wet the edge of her leso with her saliva and dig her fat fingers in my tiny ears removing the very pressing monster wax that couldn’t wait till we got home. I would then lose the Bonga points I had gained with my new peers and sit at a corner nursing my shame.
There are three distinct characteristics of African mothers. One is that they have a phrase that always runs on their lips. They always ask, ‘In my house?.’ They would ask something like:
“You came home at 6:00pm? In my house? The only people allowed to be out past 6:00pm is a thief, a policeman or a dog. Are you a dog? I know you cannot be a thief, not in my house!”
The other characteristic is that they are usually full of taboos of sijui their forefathers and their fathers said this or that. Ati Ooooh you are not supposed to whisper at night because you will be summoning demons. You are not supposed to look at a cat at nigh, you are supposed to bind it with the blood of Jesus etc.
The last thing is that they are always right! You do not tell an African mum that they are wrong. In their house? Don’t you know that it is a taboo to correct your own mother? They can curse your entire generation. There are only two rules when dealing with an African mother.
Rule number one is that they are always right and the only one time they are wrong you refer to rule number two. Rule number two states, “Refer to rule number one above.”
My mother taught me not to revenge but she is not going to get away with what she did to me in my childhood. She is the reason why I am not married. I had tons of lovers in primary school, potential life partners who saw a future in me until my mom being such a jealous person would pass by and say, “You wouldn’t say that this is the same Siloma who farts like a torn drum at night.”
She would see me trying to impress my primary school crush with foreign punch lines from M.S Patel’s English Aid and in a very soft loving tone she would ask, “Siloma, umeosha underwear ama kesho pia utavaa chupi chafu?” (Siloma, have you washed your underwear or will you wear a dirty underwear again tomorrow?
The same mother has the audacity to ask me today, “My Son, when will you get married?” And I am always about to reply, “Please go back in time to when you ruined my childhood by pushing away all my potential wives and make things right!”
Today, my mom is humble, soft-spoken and a true definition of Psalms 8:5 which says, “You made him a little lower than the Angels; you have clothed him in honor and in glory.” Ocassionally, she would think that she is in her house but would quickly remember that my phone has a red hang up button.
Today, she calls me three times a day like a medical prescription 1×3 to tell me nothing but check on me. Deep inside, I know she wants grandkids. Good thing she now knows what she did and she is just suffering from her actions. She reads all my blog posts though. Recently, I posted a trailer of my new e-book that will just retail for KES 100. She sent me that cash immediately.
Mum, I want you to know that you are the reason why I am not married yet because the many tu-girls I was hitting on left me because of things you said. But know that I love you so much and it doesn’t have to be mother’s day to appreciate you. You are my hero.
Any African Mother out there, know that that son of yours in the city loves you so much. To speak on their behalf, the reason they are not married is because these Nairobi girls are ‘running us’ a lot – wanatukimbiza sana.
My mum would beat you for anything; look gloomy and she would ask you why you look like a dead person. Be extremely happy and she would ask, “It seems that you have stayed for quite a while without crying.”
If you found inner peace, soared and expressed yourself freely through your butt, she would give you a serious spanking that automatically restored you to factory settings; manufacturer’s default. She did not know how to press the reset button, she was the reset button. Her eyes alone would make a pregnant lionness abort.
I think my mother was scheduled to be a superpower. Blame corruption and the rich getting their way in everything. She now would be a Marvel or a DC Comics star and I would be in those phoros helping her hold the numerous awards she would bag but deforestation, soil erosion and rural-urban migration has made us continue walking behind cattle in Oloitokitok.
My mum was royalty. She owned her kingdom and I was her maidservants. Yes, I said that in plural because I was everywhere every time. She was every African leader I learnt in GHCRE; Kinjekitile Ngwale, Omwanika, Omulamuzi and the like. I wish she were Mansa Musa though. I was my mother’s remote control, I was her messengers because she would send me everywhere at the same time, I was her shoe lace manager, personal assistant and chief of staff.
Generally, I was her high esteemed slave. And what did I get in return? Nothing! She ocassionally bought me Fanta whenever we went to the village’s shopping centre; it doesn’t fully qualify to be called a town.
Soda was such a big thing to any child then. It was something grandiose, something extra-terrestrial. Soda was only for the rich. We would take Soda twice a year; during Easter and Christmas. Slowly, Due to high cost of living, Easter festivities faded out and our parents started telling us that sodas were harmful to young kids.
Kids would take more of Fanta and Sprite. Coke, Stoney and Krest were for the elderly. To us, those were hard drugs, talk of LSD and Crystal Meth. A kid taking Coke, Krest and Stoney was not just a village kid but a Nairobi ultra pro max elite with wireless charging technology.
My mom must pay. I will make sure she pays for the embarrasment she put me through as a kid. In any big event, my mum would find me narrating the movie, ‘The gods must be crazy’ to my peers. She would then grab me shouting, “Look at how dirty your ears are. How do you expect to marry a beautiful wife someday with dirty wax drooling from your ears? What kind of a Moran will you be?”
She would then wet the edge of her leso with her saliva and dig her fat fingers in my tiny ears removing the very pressing monster wax that couldn’t wait till we got home. I would then lose the Bonga points I had gained with my new peers and sit at a corner nursing my shame.
There are three distinct characteristics of African mothers. One is that they have a phrase that always runs on their lips. They always ask, ‘In my house?.’ They would ask something like:
“You came home at 6:00pm? In my house? The only people allowed to be out past 6:00pm is a thief, a policeman or a dog. Are you a dog? I know you cannot be a thief, not in my house!”
The other characteristic is that they are usually full of taboos of sijui their forefathers and their fathers said this or that. Ati Ooooh you are not supposed to whisper at night because you will be summoning demons. You are not supposed to look at a cat at nigh, you are supposed to bind it with the blood of Jesus etc.
The last thing is that they are always right! You do not tell an African mum that they are wrong. In their house? Don’t you know that it is a taboo to correct your own mother? They can curse your entire generation. There are only two rules when dealing with an African mother.
Rule number one is that they are always right and the only one time they are wrong you refer to rule number two. Rule number two states, “Refer to rule number one above.”
My mother taught me not to revenge but she is not going to get away with what she did to me in my childhood. She is the reason why I am not married. I had tons of lovers in primary school, potential life partners who saw a future in me until my mom being such a jealous person would pass by and say, “You wouldn’t say that this is the same Siloma who farts like a torn drum at night.”
She would see me trying to impress my primary school crush with foreign punch lines from M.S Patel’s English Aid and in a very soft loving tone she would ask, “Siloma, umeosha underwear ama kesho pia utavaa chupi chafu?” (Siloma, have you washed your underwear or will you wear a dirty underwear again tomorrow?
The same mother has the audacity to ask me today, “My Son, when will you get married?” And I am always about to reply, “Please go back in time to when you ruined my childhood by pushing away all my potential wives and make things right!”
Today, my mom is humble, soft-spoken and a true definition of Psalms 8:5 which says, “You made him a little lower than the Angels; you have clothed him in honor and in glory.” Ocassionally, she would think that she is in her house but would quickly remember that my phone has a red hang up button.
Today, she calls me three times a day like a medical prescription 1×3 to tell me nothing but check on me. Deep inside, I know she wants grandkids. Good thing she now knows what she did and she is just suffering from her actions. She reads all my blog posts though. Recently, I posted a trailer of my new e-book that will just retail for KES 100. She sent me that cash immediately.
Mum, I want you to know that you are the reason why I am not married yet because the many tu-girls I was hitting on left me because of things you said. But know that I love you so much and it doesn’t have to be mother’s day to appreciate you. You are my hero.
Any African Mother out there, know that that son of yours in the city loves you so much. To speak on their behalf, the reason they are not married is because these Nairobi girls are ‘running us’ a lot – wanatukimbiza sana.