Dear Mum, Now I know

What you meant when you said

“Okule obone” (Grow up and see)

I have grown, seen life, still seeing

Now I know better

Thank you, Mum

Now I know why you bought me that purple dress

The colour purple, my favourite colour

with money meant for milk

You whispered “Tomugamba” Say nothing to your father.”

You knew then, as I do now,

that round dresses make girls prettier than milk

Now I know why

You took us to boarding schools

So far away from home

before we even learnt to wash our bodies

Boarding schools, the shield between us and men

who seeded teenage girls, the kilindi girls

You used monkey tricks

To advocate for our education

Cleverly hanging our school uniforms besides Dad’s work shirts

tricking him to pay fees of boarding schools he detested

At last, he gave into you,

opened his black briefcase and recited his famous quote

“I have done my humble duty as a man is bound to do

The ball is in your court.”

Now I understand

Why you sold those two piglets

Which you fed at dawn before feeding yourself

Stubborn snorting piglets,

That opened doors to my high school education

and at last, when I walked the walk of victory

graduated as the first female of the Ngonge clan

I knew then as I do now

that a mother fights loudest with action than words

Might you remember that staff room visit?

On that hot afternoon

when you persuaded me to remove Gayaza

replaced it with Nabisunsa

Might you have known that measles would evade my skin?

Redirecting my story to Nabisunsa?

Now I understand why you stayed for eons in the garden

Sat on the mulch, pearls of sweat stringing down your neck

The garden, where you rehearsed hymns

and recited your gardening poem

The farmer’s shadow is the first fertilizer

The garden of solace like that bathroom stool

where I rest my head until the children call:

Kemmie: Mummy cum out, stop bathing, bathing!

Me: Go out and play. Okule Obone (grow up and see)

Now I know more than ever why

When I open my mouth

Your words come out flying

Gabbie: Mum, where do I put the pan?

Me: On my head

Moses: Screaming his lungs out: I tell you mummy….

Me: Are you telling the neighbours?

Not my words, my mother’s words

Which have also become mine

Now I know why you guarded fiercely

The secret of childbirth

You watched me labour in Nsambya Hospital

Rubbed my back and said

Abakazi abaganda tebawogana wogana
(Baganda women do not shout carelessly)

I clenched my teeth,

winced through pain like Hebrew women

and when the baby finally came, her skin tender like morning dew

You held her in your arms and said

“Welcome baby Florence”

You did not call her by her name, Gabriella

because mothers give birth to themselves.

Your baby Florence

Words are my precious gift to you.

Thank you for being part of my story.