She died on her own terms. That was my mother – fiercely independent to the end. She sent me away when the moment came, choosing to make her final exit solo and unpretentious just as she'd lived.The fear of losing her had haunted me for years. Every commotion in the house sent me running to her carer: "Has mummy gone?" But death, when it came, was as graceful as she had been in life.
I remember our ritual when her carer took breaks. "Put me down, lift me up, touch my legs, stretch my arms," she'd direct. Though exhausting – combining her care with my demanding job – these moments became our bridge. The mild dementia that curiously spared her money sense would surface because she could remember every kobo I owed her.
She always knew when I'd cooked her meals. She'd ask her caterer to wheel her into my room just to say thank you. I always used to marvel at how she knew I cooked those meals. I smile as I reminisce about the days I would ask for you to be wheeled out so we can drive around Calabar where I reside and you would say an adamant no, only for you to thank me profusely after the ride that you enjoyed yourself.
My mother never asked me for anything rather she gifted me with everything. When my husband died and I hadn’t roofed the space I had attached to my house to accommodate my older children, lying right there on her bed, she flipped out her savings booklet and made me complete the building. It wasn’t about having because she really didn’t have but she made us believe she had the world in her pockets. As an adult now and in retrospect, I realize it wasn’t in an ostentatious way but in a content way. My mother was eternally contented. Never envious. She didn’t know what that meant. And that was one of the most important legacy she left for us.
Born into the proud Oforka family of Okagwe Ohafia, she was an ebony beauty with wisdom beyond her years. "What's your discipline?" she'd ask university students in Nsukka. Little me, helping out in the house would associate discipline with her strict parenting. I couldn't grasp she meant their field of study. That was my mother – layers of complexity wrapped in elegant simplicity. She was such an elegant woman. ♥️
Life threw tragedy after tragedy at her. Husbands died, children too. Yet she refused to break. When Teacher Okoro Kalu (her husband) passed in 1959, whispers predicted her downfall. They didn't know her. She rose, phoenixlike, from each loss, her faith unscathed and untouched.
Her third marriage, to my father Mr. Enuesike in the sixties, brought a period of joy tinged with sorrow. A young teacher from Bendel, he understood the allure of new horizons before the term "japa" ever entered our lexicon. Their life together was marked by a fluidity of movement – from Okagwe to Ebem, Bendel to Afikpo, Enugu to Nsukka where they finally settled. But tragedy, that unwelcome shadow, followed them to Bendel (now Delta) state. There, in a cruel twist of fate, four of her children were torn from her embrace. She could have chosen to curse the heavens and let bitterness poison her heart. Not my mother. With the same quiet strength and stoicism that had seen her through past sorrows, she stood firm. Her faith remained unshaken, "God is still God," she would say, her voice steady even as her heart bled. And it did indeed bleed. This crucible of loss forged an unbreakable family bond, shaping the admirable life we all came to witness.
The '50s through '90s saw her wear many hats: fashion designer crafting wedding dresses in Ohafia, teacher, homemaker, contractor, counselor. Our home became a shelter for the weary, our family expanding beyond blood. All hers by blood and adoption. When she feared losing the Enuesike name (I being her only surviving child between my father and herself and also likely to marry and lose the name), she welcomed Philomena, who bore four more children. She blended us (‘us’ being children from all marriages) all into one harmonious unit, her love knowing no boundaries of birth or adoption. Bamidele, one of the adoptees put it perfectly when he called her the enabler of strength, confidence, identity, independence, and mental toughness – the bedrock upon which all of us under her care built our ability to face life's challenges.There was no nuclear family more held together than us till this day.
We would often hear her at night, her voice small and still as she recited her psalms. Oh, how Mrs Enuesike prayed! She approached prayer with an intensity that seemed to part the heavens. She was a prayer warrior long before the term became a fad, her devotion sincere and engrained in Christ. But what struck me most was the nature of her prayers – rarely did she ask for things for herself. Instead, her words were filled with thanksgiving, adoration, and supplication. As we grew older, I came to understand the depth of her sacrifices and the breadth of her love, it became the most natural thing in the world. You were easy to love, Mummy. ♥️
My mother, the ardent disciplinarian, brooking no nonsense and standing firmly against any form of injustice. Yet this strictness was always tempered with love, aimed at bringing out the best in those around her. Vivacious, dogged, elegant, charismatic, prudent, and energetic – she embodied these qualities and so many more. "Never say die" could have been her personal motto, as relentless as her optimism in the face of adversity. She taught me that my possibilities were endless.
When she passed and the chore of piecing together her whole life fell on me, I went to town looking for those that knew her before I was born. One of the people I met recalled the days in her shop opposite Ebem park, one leg on the sewing machine, sipping her sole indulgence – a small bottle of Guinness stout while creating pieces regarded as masterpieces in her time. At Christmas, her legendary stew drew both family and strays to our door. Till date, I judge my stew against her Christmas stew, mine always falling short. She taught us all her culinary magic, though she never followed a recipe.
Her hospitality became legendary. "O nogi n'akpa oke," people would say – she didn't discriminate. When she entered a room, the energy shifted. "All hail the queen!" they'd joke. "The strong woman is here!" She commanded respect without demanding it, her faith radiating through every action.
Even her struggles became lessons in dignity. She never wavered. Always focused. Never sweated the small stuff. The proverbial Proverbs 31 woman. That was my mother.
We'd noticed her slight squint, and thought it added to her charm. Only after she passed did we learn she'd been nearly blind in that eye for years. Yet she'd read her Bible daily, never complaining. To her, it was unimportant as long as she could serve others.
Now, as I write this, my heart swells with regret for the unspoken "I love you"s, for the times I stood helpless as pain wracked her body. For the things I needed to get her that I couldn’t . For the places I would have wanted to take her to that I didn’t have the capacity. But amid these regrets blooms certainty: I loved her unconditionally. Even when "spare the rod and spoil the child" guided her parenting, even when my teenage self ran away convinced she couldn't be my real mother, that love never wavered.
I watched her transform from a tall, bespectacled free spirit who saw no impossibilities, to a humble child of God, crippled with arthritis but wielding faith bigger than mountains. The impossibility of calling anyone else "Mummy" remains. She was everything – more than enough.
Heaven gained a ninety-three year old angel, but earth lost a force of nature. Until we meet again, my loyalty and love remain steadfast. Forever your daughter, forever my laptop screen saver, forever my ‘how to be kind and content’ manual, forever grateful. Forever yours.♥️
How wonderful you had her in your life!
What an amazing woman your mother was. You were surely blessed to have been raised by such a lady.