Mobolaji Olorisade: Open Letter to Those Whose Mothers Haven’t Died

Dear you who still has your Mother,

My mother died in May 2018. It’s not even 6 months yet, but there are many lessons I have learned since then that I couldn’t have learned otherwise.

I graduated from the University last year and this experience took my adulting to a whole new level.

In all my life, not once (and I’m not even joking) did I think my mum would one die. I’ve heard of people dying, even saw ghastly accidents with lifeless people on the road. I have friends whose loved ones have died – dads, mums, fiancés, brothers, cousins, but I had never experienced it so close. That’s why I need you to read this.

My mother had always been so strong, busy, vibrant; she had always been so there that I now think I took her strength for granted.

I don’t intend to make this letter about me, it’s not. It’s about you. You who can still call your mum or see her or laugh with her or cry with her or shout at her or rub her legs or buy her stuff. It’s you who needs to read this because chances are, you too will take those silly everyday often-taken-for-granted things for granted.

Go see her

Even though we both lived in Lagos, we didn’t get to see much because our family house is in Ikorodu and I work in Lekki. It only made sense to rent a place close to work. I went home for the 2017 Christmas holiday and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I remember my mum and I going to buy Catfish for the pepper soup we were to make for Christmas. It was a very random day. We laughed a lot. I remember sleeping by her at night, while she told stories of different times of her life. I always enjoyed my mother’s presence. Then I left home on the 31st of December, 2017, and returned in March 2018. If I knew then what I know now, that it was possible for my mum to die, I’d have gone home more often. She wasn’t one to hide her hurt, immediately gave me a piece of her mind (African mother style) when I walked into her shop that day in March. I took her seriously and made up my mind to go home more often, but a part of me still thought “She’ll always be here na.”

Well, she’s not.

You may have valid excuses, but they will mean very little when she’s gone. It may cost you your Saturday morning sleep, but make time to go see your Mum. She’s not going to be here forever, really. Call her

Luckily, this was one thing my siblings and I did well.

My mum could call for Africa! I’m the last child and was legit a mama’s girl. Even as an adult, I called my mum multiple times a day and she did the same. She’d call early in the morning to find out if I was at work and late at night to know if my sister and I were home safe. My mum knew most of my plans, she always knew where or what I was doing for the weekend, even the weekends I wasn’t home at Ikorodu. Our calls were mostly filled with random gist and it is perhaps what I miss the most about her – the fact that I could pick up the phone and tell my mum about the food I just had, or the great bargain I just made at the market, or the drama I saw on a bus on my way home. Very random stuff.

I know that everyone has their story and you might have been hurt by your mum and you may have hurt her too. Whatever the case, please call her more often. It may not be easy at first, especially if your relationship has been strained for years, but, like me, you may one day need to draw strength from the fact that forgiveness was a part of your mother-daughter/mother-son relationship.

I guess what I’m really saying is – drop your device right now and call. All you need is the random gist. I’ve always preferred practical classes to theory anyway.

Till next time.

Photo Credit: Dreamstime