By: Raymond Obeng

The unwarranted sufferings poured on her right from conception cannot be forgotten. From conception to the day that she feels the warmth of nature does not exonerate her from the bitter pill of life. The rape, psychological and physical torture and attacks both from within and without the family or home are what she clothes herself with. She is too prone to the ills of the society to the extent that nobody knows what awaits her, except the mighty hand who brought her into this world, and who will be able to determine her future. Amidst the poverty, servitude and premature motherhood, she journeys through life with the love and care for her children, sometimes too many to form a soccer team, whether born out of rape, hardship, mistrust or absolute unpreparedness to that unloving, ugly or wolf-in-a-sheep’s skin man.
Caring for some children is a headache, not forgetting the insults from wicked, unclean and immature fathers, in addition to teenage buffoonery, which makes most teens think they are better than the wombs that once carried them. The heat having fun in the armpit of the teenager, and the sharp odor that accompanies it is only appreciated by the teen, not the concerned people around him or her of whom the mother forms membership. The African mama is said to be a talker, and sometimes branded as a witch when she begins to insert sense into her unwilling, stubborn, crooked kid. But with all these, the African mother keeps her head up always visualizing the bright future of her kid, though able or disable, tall or short, bright or dull, fast or slow, humble or impatient, or fat or slim.
As for me, I remember very well. After being brought to this world unplanned, with my not-well-constructed big head with all sort of indescribability, almost murdered in the womb with concoctions prescribed by quack, uneducated local ‘nurses’ hovering around and messing up our generations, I tried to resist my mum’s not-well-thought- of- plan originally emanating from shame and fear. My mum was a teenager by then who was forcefully disvirgined by her educator, and was totally branded with mistrust by the family of her best class mate in school, a truly trusted friend, who was supposed to have been married to my dad. This, only my brother, who was by then in her mum’s womb and unaware about our fate, and myself can tell someday somewhere. The prayers of our grand mas and pas managed to secure our future. To me I thought my grandma Nfum, and grandpa the late Nyamekye were my parents, until one day, one inquisitive blind man in our village unfolded to me the truth. Years later, after seeing my mum face to face, the story telling scene was filled with tears that was only nibbled away by Jehovah. But I was lucky to meet two great personalities in my life: my grandma, Nfum and my Sunday school teacher, a carpenter whom I helped to feed his goats, and mostly I was used as a clamp so he could saw his wood on his work bench. It was his mum, a very prayerful woman, who led me to Christ at my tender age.
Wherever I find myself today has not come by through my means. The diligent hand of motherhood engineered by Yahweh is my strength and hope for tomorrow. From the enjoyment most of us had at the back of our mums to and fro the farm, and on the way home in this African hot weather, sometimes, their breasts strategically catapulted into our mouths while receiving warmth at their back can only be forgotten by the ingrate child, not those of us who remember what our dear African mothers have offered us. This I know that very few of us who had wealthy and responsible parents never experienced this stuff that gives the majority of us the hope to make our future meaningful. One thing that a writer cannot finish writing about is the worth of our African mothers. I cry for joy to be born by an African woman, no matter the circumstances.

Contact: Twitter Account: @rayobeng