I Am My Mothers Daughter.

The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The older I get, with each passing day, I recognise the presence of my mother in me, materialising softly in different ways. I see her when i exclaim “Why ti eleyi n’ se bayi bi ode?” when someone walks obnoxiously slowly on Oxford street. I see her when I chastise my sister on her perpetual laziness and roll my eyes dramatically towards the sky as if to ask God himself to come down and talk to the girl. I see her when I outline my lips in a dark purple pencil, and fill in the centre with a striking red; an ombre reminiscent of the 1980’s house parties in Brixton, filled with colourfully dressed Nigerians by way of Lagos. I see her when I place tomatoes, onions, red peppers and scotch bonnets into my blender, the perfect base for my stew, the kitchen pungent with palm oil bubbling away on the cooker, waiting to be aspersed in the tomato mixture. I was in her, but she remains imparted in me.

My mother is in me, as I am in her. I am my mother’s daughter. You can see it in the angularity of my face, with a smooth hazelnut sheen in contrast with her warm honeyed hue. You can see her in the curve of my smile, the same mouth that when annoyed upturns, with furrowed brows bristling with the same impatience annoyance we are both so prone to. You can see it when I pull on her Ankara dresses, and adjust my wig, looking like a carbon copy of her, pre… well, me I suppose. I am my mother’s daughter. I am the culmination of years of prayer, sacrifice, joy and sometimes fear. And unto me, will be born a daughter, and in her, myself, my mother, my grandmother, and my ancestors will reside in her gently, pouring ourselves out of her when the moments present themselves. Our forbearers will rejoice in her, in me, in my mother. In us.

This mother’s day, I am particularly celebrating the woman who brought me into this world, the woman who brought her into this world and all the other women in my lineage. I am exceptionally appreciative to have a mother. I am blessed to have a mother who has raised myself and others to be resilient, resourceful and fiery, to be the flowers that not only survive, but thrive and bloom in a world that has for centuries, not been for us. A mother who is constantly learning and adapting her parenthood as the world changes around her and cultures shift, a mother who knows when it’s time to get down and dirty, and when to be soft and reticent. Happy Mothers Day to my Mother, My Momma, Iya Mi, My mum, Dayo. You are so loved, so cherished, so appreciated. Our home is not a home until you are at the centre of it. 

{Photos by Yossy Akinsanya}

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