PurplePretoria

There are many things that the people who pro-create us teach us about the world; with an imprint, invisible to the undiscerning eye and a voice that eventually becomes either our inner critic or our role model. Character DNA. In many households, the parent who spends the most time with the children is usually the mother (at least at a younger age), therefore she inevitably becomes the first person who forms our thoughts about the world, and against whom our ideas of who we are, are bounced against. I have heard that we should separate who we are as women from our role as mothers- apparently we do not forever remain the axis upon which our children rotate – “Just wait until he gets to Kindergarten!” … Really? I also know that some of the deepest cuts and the deepest joys come from the people we love the most, (otherwise they would not be so deep) and so there is no perfection in this role.

These are some of the things I learned from my mother while growing up;

The language of my ancestors.

2. That we should have learned how to cook, how to make obusheera bwo mugusha just by watching her do it.

3. That hand skills are learned by doing and not by a set of instructions. You learn how to knit by knitting. You learn how to sew by sewing. Except if you are a Rumusho, then she does not know what to do for you.

4. How to plait hair.

5. Code words for random things from the names of several people in her home village. Like Marisiyari. And Kyarimpa.

6. That you cannot iron the dress you are wearing while wearing it.

7. That you measure the amount of salt to put in your food by sight and through your fingers.

8. That if you want to speak like a white person, you should speak through your nose.

9. About Ms. Cutler and Ms. Warren and country dancing.

10. That you should always be smart. And that there are no home clothes and going out clothes.

11. That if you invite a ghost to eat in your dream, it will never come back to haunt you. Or you could turn your blanket top side down.

12. That you should never respond to the sound of your name being called if you cannot see who is calling you.

13. That a girl should not whistle because she will grow beards.

14. That dark skin is beautiful and a dark gum is extra special.

15. That tough voluminous hair is the best for a relaxer.

16. That an undefined group of people called Bashekyi are always waiting around the corner to laugh at you when things do not work out.

17. That women can drive- aggressively, and for long distances including to Kabale and back and in steep crevices like the Rukiri.

18. That you should not tell people your ‘business’.

19. That all men want sons.

20. Songs in our mother tongue. Like Ka Kikuru n’okorakyi. Like Chi Chi Chi.

21. That only a foolish bride would dance, laugh or smile on her wedding day.

22. That clean girls have big white panties.

23. Stories about walking many kilometres to school, being caned for wearing shoes and singing Shaha mukaaga zituuse (a failed attempt at Luganda).

24. That you must not wear flat shoes to a party.

25. That you must not wear a sweater while entering a party. You can wear it later.

26. About my father’s lineage and his family.

27. That a caesarian is terrible way to give birth.

28. That her father called her All children are equal even though she was his third girl.

29. That respectable women would not dance in public and if they did, they should just humbly and slightly shake their shoulders.

30. That you should not laugh like a fool. And if you do, you might get beaten.

31. How to carry a baby on my back.

32. That if you looked at her a certain way after she had beaten you, you could earn a second beating.

33. The word ‘friend’ means ‘boyfriend’. And that boyfriend is a bad word.

34. What Ka-kyinku did.

35. What Bushuyu did.

36. About British.

I wish I knew what you were thinking, so that I would know exactly what to say. How I spoke, how I responded, was it as eloquent as you would have preferred?

I think if I knew for certain what you thought about me- maybe I would mould myself into the person the woman you married said that you wanted. I never got your opinion on what you thought about me on my ‘big days’, you skirted on generalities.

I thought you would be impressed that time, about how I had held my own in a high place. I thought you would stay on, to hear me speak. But you left as soon as you could and forgot it so well that the next time I went, you thought it was my first time to go.

I heard that you were disappointed, overall. There is nothing special; nothing to be excited about and nothing to be angry about. I was ordinary. I have done as I was supposed to do.

I followed my dream, my biggest dream. Did you ever see the links, because you never said a word about it? But you did say, through a parable of a broken man, that skill would never be enough, I needed a parcel of connections. I think you knew that I was connectionally deficient.

I always thought that if we talked more, maybe you would get to understand who we are, but you sat in silence like a judge on a high chair as we concocted all manner of display of wisdom and wit. We create a theatre at your whim.

I was dangerously close to the edge of my chair as I tried to hear what you told him about what school was like, what life is like. I think I remember that, you didn’t have a father growing up. I read in the open letter to your mother what you thought about that.

I had not realised that you had noticed when I couldn’t make it early the next seven months. I could barely get up in the morning but when I did, I could only manage to drop him at the stage and black out for hours. I got a phone call from the woman you married, asking me if I could try to come earlier. I was too pregnant to realise she was moderating you.

Sometimes, I hear myself talk as I stand in front you and then I slow down as I realise that for every 21 words I speak, I will only get 1 from you. Your family’s genetic big eyes loom over me quietly, as if in scientific study of a strange species. I wish I knew what you were thinking, maybe I would make sense.

I learned what you wanted me to. I went where you said I should. But I have always been dispensable here. When the ropes finally fell around me, somehow you knew I was free. And then, you reinforced my importance. I belonged. But also, was highly flawed. My nature too soft, too sensitive, too gullible. Your thoughts about me will always be highly flawed.

Things my mother taught me

People Pleasers Anonymous