Y’all are going to have to rawdog this post and read. I’m not reading it out loud for any of you; it’s personal enough xx

I just wanted to post this because the internet lasts forever, and that’s the minimum amount of time that appreciation for my mummy should be expressed.

I sat down over a week ago to begin writing this post about my mother with the intention of posting it so that it’s read on her birthday, and I still intend to post this for her birthday, January 29th, but for the past few days I’ve found myself lost for words. How do I effectively capture all my mum means to me with just the English language? Even with all my spoken languages combined? Every time I’ve opened my laptop to start typing, the words have failed to capture my feelings. There are no sentences that I can string together that can paint a picture of my mother in her totality, of what knowing her has done to me, but I will absolutely try.

Maybe there’s a certain beauty to that; none of you will be able to experience what knowing my mother in her fullness does to you. There will always be parts of her that are mine to experience and mine alone. There’s a selfish, possessive part of me that revels a little bit in that knowledge — that you’ll never have her like I do. That, due to the complexities of consciousness and life, no one will. But there’s a much larger part of me that feels sorrow about it. Because no one will ever experience her like I do, and that, to me, is a tragedy.

I look at my mummy and think to myself at least once a week, “God really knew what He was doing when He gave me you.” Though, technically, I know that He gave ME to HER, by virtue of the chicken and the egg, but you get what I mean. I simply do not think anyone else could be my mother, and mother (verb and adjective) as perfectly as mine has to me. She’s under some misconception that she’s “not maternal”, but what is being maternal bar being an amazing mother to your children. One could argue that maternal instinct must extend to other children in order to count as truly being “maternal”, but I beg to differ. If you’re able to have children and they think you’ve done a phenom job, then even you can’t say you’re not maternal. It’s the same as how I feel about authors who write phenomenal literature but negate their efforts by saying English isn’t their first language. Respectfully, who cares what you think? The proof is in the pudding.

So, what is there to say about the woman who has given me everything? Literally everything: basically my entire face, my love for fashion (as evidenced by the rings in the featured picture), support in the form of a best friend, joy in the morning, headaches in the evenings (she’s a yapper, but only with me so I’ll never ever complain), comfort through shared experience (in this last year especially).. I could go on and on. My mum is the blueprint for success in my life. Not just in material possession (though her wardrobe is to die for… I will pester her until she gives me the items I want from it until I’m old and gray) but moreso in character. She is the kindest, most generous, and inspiring person I know. In the world. And that’s not a hyperbole. I can’t actually think of many people who have gone through everything she has in life and stood as firmly as she does today. I know a lot of that can be attributed to her foundation in God, but even so, it’s truly admirable. When I finally convince her to release a memoir, you’ll understand the depths of what I mean by that.

When I had the idea to write this, I think I had this cosmic expectation that it would be this epic, epistolic blog post. That the brain-finger connection would be on fire and I’d be typing something that takes 35 minutes to read about how much I love my mum. But, every time I’ve come back to keep writing, I feel like there isn’t enough language in my lexicon to suffice, so instead of wallowing in that fact, I let my mind wander until it settled on this poem:

There is a special kind of love that leads one to express itself through creation

An ironic love that results in an evolution from creation to creator

I love you so much that I birthed something of my own, for you.

It’s a love as sharp as a chisel, that chips away at my marble until it bring visions to life

A wordless, shapeless love that still pierces the heart

It’s waking up in the morning and seeing God’s love in your eyes

A daily reminder of His companionship

Steadfast and never-moving from beside me

Of soft lips past against stinging knees

And comforting touches against stinging eyes

A love that fights daily to reassure,

Though its battle dances have already won the war

Not a day passes that I don’t feel your phantom touch

It shapes and moulds, our flesh and blood intermingling as it prunes

Blending together the parts that came from you

And the parts that developed after, from me.

I feel my love for you in the silent moments

When we can both sit and just be

I feel it, also, in the loud moments

When our words can’t help but break free

Teetering between a war of wits and a dance of delight (cringe)

I’ll love you until the word sours in my mouth

Thick with nostalgia, a testament of the effect you will always have on me

But since that’s many years from now,

I’ll settle on the commitment to ensuring you won’t go a day without feeling this love

This love that outlines me in a shimmering glow. Has made me who I am

This love that will never be described to satisfaction

This love that, ultimately, will never feel like enough in return

But is all I can give you

Thank you for being you, and for never changing in the face of life’s troubles

My mother is so ineffable that she’s forced me into writing poetry. And I hate writing poetry (because I can never objectively tell if it’s good or terrible). We don’t really read poetry in this household. Though, in the course of writing this, I did come to the philosophical realisation that we are simply products of our parents and their parents before them, and so on and so forth. There’s a comfort in that, a magnanimous quality to it; even though we haven’t met all of our ancestors, some part of them (outside of DNA) rests in us to make us who we are today. Even when we’re physically alone, or emotionally lonely, we were still made by a community that spans centuries.

I hope you all go and hug/ spend time with your mums today if you can, I know I sure am going to.

That’s all.