African mother

What's it like being raised by an African mother?

Being raised by an African mum, there is a pretty good chance you will never ever throw a tantrum in her presence, much less direct it at her. That just doesn't fly. It would very likely earn you a slap across the face - a hot one! Whatever your objections to a situation, you will very humbly state them (if at all) taking great care not to annoy her in the process.

You do get whipped. I got whipped with canes, drumsticks and electric cables. I am not as forgiving about it as most people who were raised African. The whole thing drove me into depression at age 12, so my parents stopped it. I still struggle with the depression and self-doubt. So, my own child doesn't get any whipping from me. But, not to be a complete sissy, I regularly threaten it - with a look that leaves no doubt that I actually will follow through.

Yes, school is everything. I almost always topped my class but I still got my school report cards scrutinised like they were damn Al-Qaeda cables in the hands of the CIA.

If unmarried, moving out is offensive to your mother. Yes, she is worried about all the unholy things you'll do when on your own but mostly she is offended that you don't deem her capable of taking care of you any more.

Unless you intend to marry the boy in the next year or so, you don't introduce him to your mother (or father). Introduction in my culture is the equivalent of marriage. Once your mate has been introduced to your parents, you'd better stick with them for life. The introduction is as elaborate as your average wedding anyway. So, everybody you see from age 16 to marriage, you see clandestinely. Dates are probably short spates of time spent leaning against your father's fence with one of your hands in his, the other slapping mosquitoes. He doesn't ever set foot in your parents' compound and if your brothers see him standing at the fence before you do, they'll throw dirty dish water at him. Whatever happens, your mother should never ever know you have a boyfriend. If she does, that might be the first time you ever see her cry.

Of course you do housework by hand from age 6. That includes dish washing, mopping the floors, laundry and if there is a patch of earth besides their house that can grow beans, digging too.

You are told lots and lots of stories - tribal tales, Western Cinderella, family legends. Most likely all of them, including Cinderella, are told from memory not read from a book. You memorise them and tell them to your own children when the time comes.

You see your grandparents for extended periods at least once a year. We have three school breaks of 3 - 6 weeks. Atleast one of those will be spent with your grandparents in the village.

Your mother is most commonly known by your name if you are her first born child. Ex. Mama Tom or Mama Lydia. You and your siblings may never know her given name until you have to fill out a form at the end of your primary school.

No matter how few the syllables in your name are, your mother and subsequently the whole family calls you by a shortened version of it. Mine calls me Lyd.

When you are a woman yourself and have children, she will forcefully move you from your home back into hers for at least two months. That or she moves in for the same period of time. Then she will cook you at least five meals a day and force feed them to you if she has to, because, giving birth is seeing into the grave itself. You must be taken care of. Then for the rest of the child's life, she'll consider herself a party in a shared custody arrangement.

Oh, your parents, if they can even barely afford it, will pay for your first university degree. Treating this as anything but the default could very easily cost your father his marriage.

You'll grow to be totally comfortable with your place on the food chain because by 11 or so, you are slaughtering the chicken your mother later calls dinner. If you are a boy, you'll probably have slaughtered a goat by 16. Slaughter = grab a life-form, with your own hands wring its neck to a very unnatural angle, separate head from the rest of the body using your mother's sharpest kitchen knife. You know what's hard to find? An African who is also vegetarian.

If there is a Tom and Jerry in your house, they come in 3D with red blood running their veins. And no games here: Tom catches Jerry. Period. You see, African mums don't play favoritism - not even with the house pet. If Tom neglects to clear the household of Jerry and all his cousins, he doesn't get otherwise fed and will soon find himself chased into the wild. So, your memories of watching Tom and Jerry may or maybe not be traumatic depending on whether or not you like some blood sputtering with your entertainment. To be on the safe side though, don't give a cat to a girl who was raised African.