RE: NOW I FEEL TRULY VULNERABLE

And so Hajiya Zainab Mahmoud Kawu finally passed away on the 15th of September, 2009. I received a text message from her son, Ishaq Modibbo Kawu, at about 10.30 in the morning. It was a simple statement full of gloom and resignation. Instantly my own tragic memories came back to me. Losing your mom defines death more precisely than any number of words in any language. I had spoken to Modibbo about three days before his mother’s death and of course one of the topics we discussed was his mother’s illness. She had been in a coma for some time, and he told me that they were becoming increasingly resigned to the grim conclusion that she may never regain consciousness. A few days later he sent me a text message that said “My mother died this morning”.Why write a rejoinder to a colleague just because he lost his mother? Well one reason is that from the time Hajiya Zainab became ill, to the time she went into a coma, Modibbo had kept his friends and his readers abreast of her situation. When the inevitable finally happened and she succumbed to the summon of her Creator, Modibbo again connected with his readers through a most touching tribute to the mother that inspired him throughout his life. Translation: Modibbo had the courage to do what most of us would hesitate to do, whereas it offends neither religion nor common sense.

Such emotional confessions are not the commonest of traits, especially among Modibbo’s socio-cultural type, which is the Hausa/Fulani ethnic group. Among this group, particularly its conservative elements, stoicism is revered; so revered in fact that it is often pushed to the extreme or even misused. The Fulani have a cultural festival called Sharo, whereby young men and maidens come together and the young men exchange vicious, merciless beatings as a test of manhood.

Until you participate in that contest, you may find it impossible to find a wife. So the public expressions of emotional pain are considered a sign of weakness. It is better, according to some cultures, to suffer irreparable emotional damage silently than to bring it out and reduce the burden upon yourself.  But with the illness and eventual death of his mother, Modibbo has somehow managed to cross that bridge; he discussed his mother’s illness and his family’s emotional trauma resulting from it, freely and honestly. This is what I found remarkable, the courage to treat misfortune as Qadr, or Destiny, not as a curse or a punitive sanction from God.

Almost every one that has lost their mother would admit that they miss her deeply, but few would admit that the death of their mother renders them vulnerable; fewer still would ever make that admission publicly. And yet that is the most authentic summation of the consequences of losing your mother, unless the relationship between mother and child was an abnormal one. When I saw the caption of Midibbo’s tribute to his mother: “Now I feel truly vulnerable”; I thought: there goes another little boy crying over the love that he’s lost forever. It doesn’t matter how old you are, or how long your mother lived, there is no easy way to part.

When I lost my mother a little over four years ago, one of the first people to pay a condolence visit to us was Malam Kabiru Yusuf, who was my employer at the time and who is still Midibbo’s employer. He had offered prayers and said quite a few soothing things; but what has stuck to my mind to this day was the remark: “Girma ya same ka ba shiri (meaning responsibility will meet you unprepared)” when you lose your mother. At the time, I struggled to understand what Kabiru meant, first because he is not given to aimless speeches, and second because he had himself only a few months earlier lost his mother. What did he mean by being unprepared? Sure I was not prepared for my mother’s death, but surely I was at the age of at least 41 years fully prepared for any responsibility? And besides, was Kabiru saying that when his mother died he was himself unprepared, wise and grown up as we thought him to be? On and off throughout my most intense mourning period, I thought about that simple statement, without getting anywhere.

But I understood, eventually. The answer came when I needed to discipline some of my younger ones whom I thought my mother was shielding unfairly. Suddenly I realized I was free to be mean, cruel and nasty towards them to my satisfaction. When those who are older than me now approach me, I realized also that I had no special obligation to subjugate my will to their wishes. I also started receiving more and more marital complaints from my sisters’ and nieces’ husbands, with whom I barely exchange pleasantries in the past.

Whao! So this is it. Now you have to struggle, all alone, to find that thin line between firmness and arrogance, between your rights and the rights of your other relations. When you lose your mother you lose a vital control mechanism that lets you know when you are stepping out of line, either from going too fast or too slow. Only a mother can inspire, control, support and provide unconditional love without asking or even expecting anything in return. She would show you your stupidity without making you feel stupid, your meanness without making you feel mean. Surely no amount of preparation can enable one to come to terms with losing such priceless privilege. It is in this context that I appreciate Modibbo’s reactions to his mother’s final journey. T o those of us that have experienced this ‘partial death’, Modibbo’s attitude is nothing short of courageous.

I also recall what Malam Mohammed Haruna, MD of the CITIZEN Communications and Daily Trust columnist said to me when he condoled us over my mother’s death. It was three days after her death when he visited our house. He took a careful look at my face and declared: “This must have been a very big blow; do you realize how you have transformed physically within the last few days?” Of course I didn’t realize and I didn’t care. At that time the only thing that kept me going was the endless stream of people that either came in person or sent messages of condolence; that was when I realized the Islamic wisdom of condoling the bereaved. Before then, I saw it as routine, now I do it with feeling.

One last recollection that Modibbo’s ‘Tribute to Mamma’ refreshed in me was a simple conversation I had with an office colleague. The colleague’s name is Mrs Zainab Kperogi. The lady just returned from a maternity leave which she took to have their first baby. I was her editor at the time. On the first day she resumed, I asked her how it felt to be a mother. She responded, looking very serious than ever: “If my mother were to be alive now, I would kiss her feet every day. I know now that there is no way we can repay our mothers.” Zainab didn’t know the impact that that statement had on me. I was lucky to have picked it up at the time I did, because my mother was still alive at the time. I knew I couldn’t kiss my mother’s feet, but I could, and I tried to, put myself and my priorities at her feet. Like Tupac the slain musician said, there is no way you can pay your mother back, but you can let her know that she’s appreciated.

And that’s the thing. While your mother lives, do everything you can to make her realize that because you can’t pay her back, you do appreciate everything she did. In the end that is really the only source of solace you can have when the painful moment of parting inevitably arrives. So may God have mercy on our mothers. May God have mercy on our mothers. May God have mercy on our mothers. May God have mercy on our fathers, and when our “time” is up, may we have smooth passage to paradise. Ameen.