moniquekwachou

But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.– Mitch Albom In Cameroon, it is taboo not to love your mother. I have no sources to cite to prove the fact of this. But consider this, if one were to do a survey of songs written by Cameroonian artists, they would no doubt find that there is a tie between songs written in praise octogenarian president and those written in praise of mothers. I was in form three when I realized just how much of a taboo it was to express any disdain for one’s own mother. The only music channel our cable in Bamenda provided was finally airing the video of Eminem’s ‘Cleanin’ out My Closet’ and I was eagerly rapping along to the lyrics in those little M.A.D booklets we bought for five hundred francs during school outings. Pa and Ma, my adopted grandparents were out so I was comfortably sprawled on the carpet, the parlor the doors shut to keep out the dust Bamenda is notorious for. My cousin Stella had her friends visiting and one of them brought up the conversation. She hated Eminem, she said, it was obvious he was a bad person. Only bad people would hate their own mother so openly. If an ‘adult’ had said same I would have ignored it. I already knew they supported what suited them. But my cousin and her friends were different. I looked up to them, university students with their stylish clothes, more educated than their parents they knew how to manipulate things, and I depended on Stella for novels to read and interesting conversations to listen to. So if they agreed- and all three of them did- that only an evil person would not love their mother, then they were likely right. And I who understood Eminem, I who could relate with him as I rapped along, was likely wrong. Or evil for doing so. My cousin’s friend had no clue what she had done. I would think about it over and over again in the weeks and months to come. To reconcile my understanding of Eminem and my admiration for Stella and her friends, I would conclude that it was just one of the differences between Cameroon and the US. In the US, having a bad relationship with one’s mother was generally expected. In fact, it can be seen as a staple of the teenage years, a stage all kids must go through. Is there any family T.V show where a teen has not slammed their bedroom door and shouted: “I hate you”? Definitely something not applicable in Cameroon. First, slamming a bedroom door requires that you have a bedroom of your own, and next, shouting ‘I hate you’ is an invitation for even more things that the child will hate. My conclusion made sense to me. Motherly love was just one of those things the two countries I had lived in saw differently. A loving mother-child relationship in America was what was illustrated by Clare Huxtable and kids on The Cosby Show, or what Tia and Tamera experienced with Lisa on Sister, Sister.  It was the regular hugging, the girls nights with popcorn the little talks about everything from peer pressure to boys and yes the scolding but more the makeups after the scolding. In the American version of motherly love, mothers said they were sorry just as much as kids did. And kids are reassured that no matter what they did, their mama was never going to stop loving them.  In Cameroon, that definition did not apply. Loving your mother was a different connotation altogether. It was allegiance to taking her side in fights she would have with her siblings, or between her and co-wives. It was promising to build her a house when you grow up and give her a reason to boast that my child is a doctor, engineer, lawyer or banker. It was a duty to be fulfilled and acknowledgment that she is always right irrespective of what may be…and if sorry ever left your mother’s mouth it would likely take the form of “come and take this meat and finish it”. For a while, this differentiation would help me console myself for understanding Eminem, for being like him and not feeling like I loved my mother at that time. For a while, I would think the differences meant one society knew love more than the other. But later on, by the time I was a university student myself, Cameroon would have taught me to measure love by the number of sacrifices made and hardship endured and I would find that no one can top an African mother on that evaluation. And so, I too would come to pledge allegiance to the mother who is always right, and aspire to be the child who will be bragged about at CWF meetings…to love out of mindful duty if not the fullness of heart. I would try to love like that and fail because I am one of those people who needs to know you to love you. One of those who need to be able to reason their love prior to expressing it. And that is why Mothers’ Day stumps me. **** I will know my mother when [god forbid] she dies. I have no recollection of my mother before the age of six. There is evidence of us being together, of course. But I don’t remember it. I recall being tucked to sleep by Aunty Susan. I recall being bathed and dressed by Franka, one of those distant cousins brought into town by relatively better-off family members to serve their households in exchange for their education. I recall there being a house with grey floors of concrete smoothed to a slightly glossy finish and low wooden chairs that formed a semi-circle around the T.V, positioning us as the audience to whatever was playing on TV. But I do not recall my