When a mother is all you got

 Prim K. Tumuramye

The year was 1999. I was 15 years of age, in Form Three. My mother was the closest and most present relation I knew in my life. Having been raised with no father, no sibling, mine was indeed a very small world. Being an only child means that you are overly protected lest anything nips your life in the bud. I was that over-protected child. I was not allowed to visit or do most of the things fellow children engaged in, just in case. I was pampered and pressurized to grow faster than my age in equal measure.

That afternoon in 1999, Aunt Hope (Maama Annet Kukundakwe) came to pick me from school. I was picked from class to go and receive my message from the Headmaster’s office. Messages from headteachers were usually not good news. Even as I dragged my feet to the Headmaster’s office, I wondered why of all students I had been singled out for a message. Nonetheless, I went, for refusing to go would be a crime on its own.

As I neared the Headmaster’s office, I saw Aunt Hope. I knew for a fact that Aunt Hope loved me as her own child. Her motherly hugs, the admiration with which she looked at me every time we me met told it all. Yet on this day, upon seeing me she avoided my eye contact.

‘But why would Aunt Hope visit me on this not special afternoon?’ I silently wondered.

At Kigezi High School, we did not have special designated days for visiting students. However, there were days that everyone expected parents to be seen on the school compound. Days like Career Day, PTA meetings and the infamous Come with your parent note in case you were found on the wrong side of the school rules and regulations.

As soon as I was in the Headmaster’s office, he and Aunt Hope mumbled a few words that I did not understand, and the Headmaster told me that I had been granted permission to be out of school for a few days. I did not have the guts of asking the reason for granting me permission that I had not requested for.

When we left the school premises, I asked Aunt Hope why she had come to pick me from school at the least of expected times. She said my mother wanted to see me. I asked why she had not come for me since she’s the one that needed me. Aunt Hope didn’t say anything. Since I had been raised up knowing that elders are not to be questioned, I sheepishly followed on. The walk down Rugarama Hill that day seemed longer than usual.

Down in the valley, we crossed through the Kigezi High School Primary (Lower) playground.  Mid-way through the playground, a group of four or five women stopped Aunt Hope. If you grew up in Kabale you know that everybody knew everyone.

‘Oh dear, you have brought the daughter to have a final glimpse of her mother. How nice!’ the women chorused in unison.

My suspicions were confirmed. I had previously witnessed quite a number of my schoolmates, who had been picked out of school without any clearly stated reason only to reach home to the news of the demise of their loved ones. I did not have the time to cry or ask any questions because Aunt Hope literally pulled me on, without answering the women.

The damage was already done – I was going home to bid farewell to a dying mother.

We reached home and were told that my mother had been readmitted at Muhunde Nursing Home. We rushed there, to find my mother’s seemingly lifeless body lying on the hospital bed. It was a very traumatic sight.

I cried, pictured myself as an object of discussion on who to take care of me after my mother’s death and the thought of all that brought sickening pain to my heart. My mother and I had created a small world around us – that only us could understand. In that world we did not have much materially but were rich in contentment and aspirations. Here I was, with death threatening to shatter that small world.

My mother did not die but the sickness killed her livelihood. The months spent recuperating from that near-death experience left her penniless. Recovering from both the bodily and business sickness took time. Nonetheless, I was glad to have remained with a mother.

To date, my mother still lives. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to have had her by my side as I celebrated every little milestone of my life. She cried her heart out at my Give away ceremony, worried herself nearly to the point of death the first time I experienced child labor pains. She was there to babysit for me when I left my children for work/study trips and smiled with fulfillment each time I excelled.

Mother’s Day is a day I don’t stop to celebrate – not because I don’t hold my mother dear. Well, for me while growing up, everything about me depended on my mother. Every day was Mother’s Day. If she worked, we ate, if she did not, then we didn’t.

As a mother, I pray that everyday of my life will be impact-fully meaningful for the children I am stewarding.

#Every day is Mother’s Day

                                                       ©Prim K. Tumuramye

Prim is a Christian, wife, mother and Communications Specialist at Compassion International. She is passionate about reading, writing, youth mentorship and intentional parenting.