Bolaji - My mum was a pillar of strength. Not the physical kind, but the quiet inner kind. She was full of grit. She was unbreakable. It is the way she was raised by her mother, Mama Caro (why my grandmother was identified by the 3rd of all her children remains a mystery), who herself was a true feminist, decades before feminism was a thing. That same quiet inner strength I see in my aunts, my sister, my cousins, and my nieces. My mom belongs to a lineage of smart, strong women.
I saw my mum cry only once in the 46 years I was blessed to spend with her. It was when we lost my cousin. I remember it now as clear as day. I must have been about 8 years old. I was standing in the courtyard of our house at Oda Road when I heard her piercing agonized cry ring out loud from our living room. I never heard that sound from her before and never again after. I rushed over to see my mum crumpled in a heap on the living room carpet, wracked with grief as the bearers of the news struggled to hold her up. When my mum loved, she loved completely. Unconditionally.
My mum was a gifted manager. Nobody I know is as well organized as my mum. Not even close. Whatever she did, at home, at work, in church, her social engagements, mum excelled. My mum was a born leader. If you wanted to get things done, say build a house, you go to my mum. Always unassuming, mum’s meticulous ability to organize people, processes and things meant she always played an outsized role in any organization or institution she found herself. Whether in the civil service where she achieved the pinnacle of administrative managerial success, or in the community social club she pioneered and had to plead to be relieved of the honorary role of Lifetime President, or in her regular bible study sessions, my mum was that vocal, engaged, steady, reliable presence. Just a few years back, a career opportunity came calling that required proof of university admission. I had not needed that paperwork in almost 30 years and was at my wits end how to locate it. On a whim, I called my mum to ask if, per chance, she could help. I knew it was a long shot. She had it for me within 24 hrs! She knew exactly where she had it filed 30 years later! That was my mum.
My mum is the most selfless human I know. Always giving. Never asking. In the last several years, even as her short-term memory started to fail and her eyesight started to give, she insisted on not being dependent, in her own unique, quiet but firm way. During one of my last visits with her, she was staying with Sis in Ife (where we had ‘conspired’ to have her live and be cared for). She came over, sat next to me, and asked, we are going back to Akure tomorrow right? She nodded and smiled agreeably as I carefully explained to her that she lives in Ife now. The next day, and the one after, she came back and asked me the same question as if for the very first time. Until I finally got the message. No fussing, no shouting, my mum knew how to get her point across. My mum lived her life on her own terms, and what a beautiful life it was.
My mum always carried laughter in her heart and a smile on her face. My fondest childhood memories were when all the ‘mummies’ got together. Oh, how they laughed! The joyousness of those occasions brings a smile to my face to this day.
In the last couple of years, my mum would call often and say, mo kan fe gbo ohun e ni. That always brought tears to my eyes. She just wanted to know I was doing okay. She went out of her way to assure me all was well. It was never about her. It has never been about her. What I looked forward to the most about our conversations was her laugh. I loved to hear her laugh. It was my reassurance that all is well. I will miss your laugh mum. You did well. Rest well Caroline.