SHE PUSHED HIS MOTHER INTO THE RIVER — AND LET HER DIE
At night, when her stomach growled, she turned to the wall and clenched her teeth so I would not hear. She did not want my childhood filled with guilt. She wanted me to carry only one burden—the burden of living with decency.
People say strong women do not cry. That is a lie.
My mother cried often. She just did it where no one could see—while washing clothes, while doing dishes, while standing by the river after the rain. She cried for my father, who died too young. She cried for the life she had. She cried because she, too, was only human.
Then she wiped her face, stood up, and went back to work.
No applause. No reward. Just another tomorrow waiting to be faced.
When I began dreaming of Lagos, my whole body changed. I spoke faster. I planned bigger. I told her I wanted to leave the village, to build something larger, to save us both from the life we had known.
She listened with pride and fear.
Pride, because her son had dreams.
Fear, because she knew Lagos was not just opportunity. It was hunger, danger, and distance. It was a place that could swallow a person whole and teach them to forget who they were.
The night before I left, she did not sleep. She sat in the doorway under pale moonlight, staring down the red dirt road. She remembered me as a barefoot child running through the yard. She remembered carrying me on her back to the market while sweat soaked her clothes and my warm breath touched her neck.
By morning, she had cooked a small pot of jollof rice so I would leave with a full stomach. She packed some food, a few coins, and one of her old scarves, faded but clean and smelling of soap.
She placed it in my hands and said, “Take this. Lagos is cold, and people’s hearts are colder.”
I laughed and hugged her.
“You sound like you’re trying to scare me, Mama.”
She smiled, though her eyes were wet.
“No,” she said softly. “I’m reminding you. Don’t let the city teach you to forget home.”
At the bus stop, she wanted to say more. I know that now. She wanted to say come back soon, call me, I’m afraid. But mothers often choose courage over honesty when their children are leaving.
So she smiled and said the sentence that haunted me for the rest of my life:
“Go. I’m used to waiting.”
The bus pulled away in a cloud of red dust.
She kept waving until the road was empty.
