The Drifting Away

I

I am gradually drifting away from my mother. I know it’s a privileged thing to say and many people would crucify me for this statement. They would rightfully ask, “Do you know how many people wish they still had their mothers?” And my crucifixion would be justified, for I too know the foolishness of such statement and yet, the truth is the truth. My mother and I are gradually becoming strangers.

Mothers are wonderful people, and the truth is that I truly love mine more than anything else in the world. Yet, my initial statement remains true; unshaken, and unbroken by my love for her. My mother and I are on the opposite side of a river, both of us drifting away like canoes paddled by our headstrong beliefs. In a recently published poem, I had written:

“Mother, omo ti so nu soko. In the dark of night, my eyes is a rivulet of tears, and my heart yearns for home. Is this the fate of the sons who send themselves on exile? To long for a home that does not want you? Oh mother! Our hearts are one in the grief for your son. I am the dead thing, reincarnated in a cycle of self-rebirth, soon I will grow my wings in this new city, like chrysalis, morphing into butterfly.”

I was in self-exile from home in 2023, and even when I returned home in late 2024, receiving a prodigal son’s welcome, I came to realize that I was truly never going to return to the bosom of my mother. My mother thinks motherhood is being a potter, that she must mould me into her perfect desire, and yet I rebel. I know that motherhood is guiding your child into pottery, that I and only I can forge my path and mould the life I truly desire. And it’s for this rebellion that my mother has come to resent me.

II

When I was younger, my mum would trek halfway from her workplace before taking a transit home. I remember trekking all the way from school one sunny afternoon. When she got back from work, I happily told her that I, too, was like her; that I was capable of saving money and trekking. My mother smiled and warned me never to try that again. She reminded me that she was trekking so I would never have to. Thenceforth, whenever I trekked to use the money to afford the things I needed in school to relieve her, but I kept it to myself.

Oh, what I would do to return to those simpler times, when I was an innocent boy, so beloved by my mother. Everyone calls her ‘Mama Paul’ even though I am the last child of five. How I wish the world had not tainted my innocence with the truth? If only I could return to being her boy filled with the vision of false grandeur and self-righteousness that I could preach to all my classmates and enjoy been scorned. Maybe then, I would be able to run into my mother’s arms and find comfort.

III

Religion has always been the pillar and foundation on which my family stood; therefore, if any of us decided to abscond, we were asking for things to fall apart. And yet I chose to break away, to take my freedom even if it means watching my relationship with my family burn. Anyone would hate me for this, and I honestly understand them, I hated my self once too. This freedom, I know, is a selfish pursuit, and I am what they call an inconsiderate child. And yet I choose to be selfish, for being selfish sometimes is to discover, be, and love one’s truest self.

IV

My mother was the first person to truly believe in me. With a childhood filled with so many promises of greatness, it’s only natural that I grew up with the confidence of undisputed success. During my elementary years, I would tell anyone who cared enough to listen that I wanted to become an aeronautical engineer because that was what was expected of a talented and obviously brilliant child—a grand profession for grand prophecies.

As time went on, I fell in love with literature and theatre, and so against the advice of many people, I changed my career choice to performing arts. My mum believed I was better off as a lawyer; she thought I was too brilliant for performing arts. She also argued that actors lived a wayward life. I remember arguing with her from home until we arrived at the Joint Admission Matriculation Board (JAMB) office. I eventually yielded to her will after she threatened not to pay my school fees. When my exam result came out, she proudly told me she was right about my qualifications to study law.

But when my admission decision came through, I was offered a 4 year History and International studies undergraduate program instead. I immediately protested, I knew that History was never my interest and I begged to be transferred to any other program within the humanities field. My mother refused to let me transfer; she was sure I would excel in History and International Studies too. After all, it was an even easier program compared to the rigors of Public Law. I detested every day of those four years. I lived with so much regret and sometimes, I would sneak to performing arts center just to watch the students engage in what I had dreamt of. It was the pain from this mistake that became the fuel to the flames of my rebellion. Never again would I feel helpless, never again would I bend to a will that is not mine.

V

November 2024, few days after my passing out parade as corps member serving in the bustling capital of Nigeria, Abuja. I received a call from my mother; she wanted me to return home. According to her, she had secured a job for me in the south. When I told her I was not interested and that I was comfortable with what I had in Abuja, my mother burst into tears. She called all my siblings and informed them of my decision. They all called me, telling me about how my mother had pleaded for this job and I would disgrace her if I rejected it. What kind of child makes his mother cry? One of my siblings even threatened to send boys to me if I did not show up by the end of the week; it was then I should have known. But what child would think his family was planning to break him? I had never even consider the possibility until it happened.

I boarded a bus down south few days after my passing out parade. In my mind, I was going to explain to my family why I was refusing the job. Unbeknownst to me, this was a trap all along. An intervention by a mother who thought her son was flying too far from her nest. On arriving home, I was not given the chance to explain myself, and any attempt to speak was met with violence. A violence my mother silently encouraged; they would break me into pieces even if I refused to be broken. How dare I, a twenty-two years old graduate think I know what was best for me?

I held my own against their might. I was a palm tree swerving in their whirlwind of violence; I will bend but never be broken. I had already determine to run away from home the next day and I was never coming back. And yet, the calming words of my eldest brother who was living outside the city calmed me. He saw the violence for what it was. He was the one who cajoled me with sweet promises until I finally took the job. A job I would come to find out only pays ₦40,000 monthly. Not only was the pay astronomically lower than what I was receiving in Abuja, the location had zero prospect for my career. I was so down I missed the deadline for most of my Postgraduate application.

I had taken the job to make my mother happy and yet she was not happy, for she had seen that she was unsuccessful in her attempt at breaking me and forcing me back into her religion. How does love become more venomous than hate? How does mother become synonymous with danger?

VI

My brother and my mother are laughing in the kitchen, I know that I will never get to do that with her again. I know my mother will never welcome me back into her warmth unless I put a knife to my neck and kill my truest self. Is it really selfish for a child to remain defiant in their truth while their mother kneels at an altar, praying to God for a miracle?

In so many ways my mother and I are alike, like me she had also rebelled against her Adventist parents by joining a Pentecostal church. The last time I went home, I honored her and attended her church and yet my mother is not pleased. Sometimes, I cry when I remember the sadness in her eyes when she looked at what I have become. I wish to tell her that I have only left the church, that I still remember God and her teachings. That in my way, I am building faith that makes sense to me. And that one day, I might return to church but for now, I will revel in the solitude of my new found freedom.

VII

I am scared of losing my mother. At a time in my career, I wrote a short novel about a child grieving his mum. The novella was based on my very valid fear of losing my mum. As a kid, whenever she came home late or her number was unreachable, I would burst into tears as my imagination spun on the possibilities of her death.

And now that she is still very much alive, I am filled with so much grief and nightmares of what our relationship has become. I stare at the graveyard of my innocence and wish for the child she loved back to life. But would not life as that child mean that I become a cartridge of bone and dust, devoid of desire, life, and that sacred thing called self? Must I really bow at my mother’s altar like Isaac, bound and praying for God to send a lamb?