A Letter to Maami

Dearest Mum, How is the heavenly place? Is milk and honey flowing? Are lasses and lads fetching? Or is silence still the order of the day over there? My heart is lead, weighing several tons, as heavy as steel. It had been much the same before your departure. I wanted to pour out the contents of my mind, but my lips had been fettered. Disappointing you was the last thing I wanted to do. Now, I have realised that disappointing myself is worse. The wages of that betrayal mark the beginning of my end. I never loved being the person I was, but that was the wick of your lit candle. How could I, your only source of joy, deprive you of what you hoped to receive from me? If nothing else, I considered your sacrifices, your constant care, and your everyday battle to keep us afloat. Yet, for a piece of my mind, I never wanted to be the tree that bent to every wind, as I have been, all in the name of eternity. I let go of the sweetest things and deprived myself of moments as soft as cheese for those as hard as almonds, all in the name of what your faith prescribed. Permit me to remind you of the extremes to which this took me. I was not to work as a law enforcement agent, become a political aspirant or activist, or pursue my dream of taking the Bar. You believed I would become corrupt, rebuff God's orders, and violate His commandments. Maami, you did not trust what you raised. You asked me to obey our leaders even when they rent wings to fly above us, while watching us walk on our toes. But now, I am no longer walking. I have been reduced to my knees. Yet they are still flying, yes, even now with metallic wings. Yèyé, the hook of these sea muddlers has caught your little fish. You refused my first love because of our ethnic differences. Maami, with you, I was a bird set free, yet with the feathers I needed to fly already plucked. But now, ọlọ́kọ̀ mi, my strength is a leaf turning crisp, though once young and fresh. My age, like the eyes of a restless clock, swings forward without pause, and normalcy has begun to take its toll. Maami, my existence, like ink on a page, has begun to fade from recto to verso. My stamina is now a series of letters and figures, fading from the pages of this book I call life. If I continue to fear these daunting adventures, I might end up regretting not only being your child but also the very essence of my existence. If I continue to write, I will run a river of ink dry. But the red fluid flowing inside me is my ink, and I must learn to economise. Are you still watching from there? Is it painful to see your child ripping old sleeves and donning new capes? Do you still recognise me? My regards to the angels guarding the golden gates. Hopefully still your loving one, Ayomi.