23/05/2025
THE STORY OF A CARING MOTHER (Part 1)
Your husband is late. Sleep with me, and I will provide all your needs for you.” Mr. Harrison told my mum as he sat, eating the akara and fried yam he brought from our shop.
He had that smirk—one that revealed his devilish ulterior motive.
“You're too beautiful to subject yourself to this kind of hardship. Don’t worry about what people will say. You’re not the only one doing it. I used to sleep with many widows and I always pay them well. I’m not wicked. I know they need a man’s touch, and I’m generous with it.”
He was still talking when my mum stepped out, walked in with a bucket of water, and emptied it on his head. The water ran down from his head to his clothes.
He jumped immediately, akara and yam falling from his hands. He was too shocked to react. He didn’t expect my gentle mum to do something like that.
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“I am not those cheap widows you sleep with. I have pride. I have dignity. And to think you’re saying all this nonsense in front of my kids? Get up. Out of my shop! And never come back. Now!”
He stood, shook his wet clothes a bit, and left. No words. Just shame.
We were proud of our mum. But later that night, I noticed she couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t either.
I heard her sobbing.
Her room was close to ours, so I tiptoed to her door and whispered, “Mum… are you okay?”
She didn’t respond.
I asked again. Still no answer. So I pushed the door gently and walked in.
She was crying.
“What’s wrong, Mum?”
She stayed quiet for a moment, then said, “It’s Mr. Harrison… He’s the one who usually gives me money to do turnover in the shop. I reached out to him because he was your father’s best friend. Just three times I collected money from him… now he wants to sleep with me. Why is life like this?”
Tears filled her eyes.
When she noticed my eyes were getting teary too, she pulled me into a hug and said, “I know I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’m sorry. Don’t worry. I’ll find another way. You all must go to school. God is on the throne. He’ll come through for us. Now go back to bed.”
I went back to bed that night, but I didn’t sleep immediately. I prayed.
If God is truly the father to the fatherless, if He’s the helper of the helpless, then this was the time to show up.
The next morning, Mum brought out her Echolac travel bag and took out her seven Italian wrappers. She was going to sell them to her friend Oriaku—the woman who was doing well.
This wasn’t the first time.
Each time she went to Oriaku, it was the same talk:
“Why are you killing yourself over children that’ll grow and leave you? See your hair, looking tattered like an old woman. When last did you even make your hair? Or fix your nails?”
Then she would sigh and say, “Are you still Akụego, the wife of Ezeudo that I know? Buy gold. Remarry. Live a little.”
But Mum would always reply, “Who will I leave five children for if I remarry? If it was just one or two, maybe… but five? Which man will carry that burden?”
“Send them to your mother in the village and live your life. This life is once!” Oriaku would say.
But Mum never listened.
All she wanted was for Oriaku to buy the wrappers. Which she always did.
Oriaku liked shakara. She preferred to spend on herself—gold, nails, wigs—than to train her children.
But not my mother.
Aside from selling wrappers, we had a shop. We helped her run it. We sold akara and yam, morning and night.
During farming season, my siblings and I joined her to plant maize, groundnut—anything. All to support her. To help pay school fees.
Mum did everything possible to keep us in school. And she’d always say,
“When you know people are waiting for you to mess up because your father is gone and a woman is raising you, make sure you don’t mess up.”
Those words kept us going.
We all went to school.
In my 300 level, one tough lecturer gave an assignment. I was the only one who got it exactly how he wanted.
One cool evening, he walked into our department and asked, “Who is Mmesoma Chukwu?”
Everyone turned to me. I stood up slowly, thinking I was in trouble.
He stared and said, “It’s even a lady that got the highest! Unbelievable.”
That moment changed everything.
He became my friend. And soon, rich kids who didn’t understand statistics began to reach out. One of them, Nonso, asked me to coach him.
“I’ll pay you three hundred thousand,” he said. “And I’ll teach you crypto trading. Real money-making stuff.”
“Crypto kwa?” I muttered.
I wasn’t interested in anything that could distract me. I just wanted good grades, a good job, and to help my mum.
“If you’re not okay with crypto, I’ll still pay. But I wanted to give back. You help me, I help you. Money is nothing. But knowledge? It changes your life.”
I thought about it and agreed.
Nonso realized I didn’t have a laptop. He gave me one. He paid the money. I sent some home.
Watch out for the part 2
