Dear Mama,

I’m generally allergic to such public displays of affection, but this year I wanted to do something special. And so, here I am writing you a letter reminiscing on some of my favourite memories; pivotal moments that I’m not sure at the time you understood just how impactful they’d be on my life. Let me just dive in.

You may or may not have known this about little me, but hidden beneath my adorable chubby-cheeked exterior was a petty little child. I remember getting mad at you for leaving to go to work in the mornings, because I wanted you to stay home with me all day; an impossibility, where I cared little for the reason as to why. You did what most parents would and refused to cave to my tiny demands. Instead, you’d kiss me goodbye on my forehead and leave me sulking at the top of the stairs, the sound of the door closing behind you awakening the petty voice within.

“Okay, listen up”, she’d say. “When she gets back this evening, you’re not going greet her. You’re going to be sat in this exact spot with arms crossed and fury on your face so that she knows What. She. Did. You got it? Good.”

Following my coaching, I’d go about my day doing whatever it is that small people do, but when 7pm would strike, I’d cease all my activities and take my rightful place.

“You ready?”, my petty voice would sound. “When she walks through that door, don’t react. She tries to greet you? Ignore her. She tries to put a hand on your shoulder? Shrug it off. And when she asks you what’s wrong, you look her dead in the eyes and you tell her, ‘you know what you did.’”

This was the plan, but when that door would open, all my preparations would go out the window.

“Mummy”, I’d scream as I flung my body down the stairs with arms wide; my little feet launching me from the steps into your arms.

“Dammit!” My petty voice would cry, “You’re meant to be mad at her! Ugh forget it, we go again tomorrow!” And we would. Every morning I’d sulk and every evening I’d curse myself, because I could never stay mad at you. I missed you too much.

Looking back on that memory, it occurs to me how hard it must have been for you to leave me upset every day and how unfair it was for me to even be mad in the first place. Sometimes being the best parent means not being at home. But, sometimes not being home makes you feel like you’re failing as one and I just wanted to tell that you weren’t. You were great. Though I’m not sure how much teenaged me affirmed that statement.

If I’m honest, I don’t really remember fighting with you as a teenager. Though, I know I must have tried your patience given how often you feel the need remind me of that one time you felt compelled to ring your own mother and apologise for any grief you had given her growing up. Which, for the record, is savage.

I may not remember us fighting, but I do recall us getting our wires crossed. There was this one time around the kitchen table. We were having family brunch and discussing a session I’d had with the school councillor when I was 14-years-old. She’d given me a box of plastic animals and asked which ones reminded me of various family members and why, so she could get to know you all better. I thought the exercise was a ridiculous waste of my time and as I recalled my frustration, we chuckled; the laughter growing as each of you enquired which animal I had chosen to represent you. It was all fun and games. That was until I told you that I’d picked up a gorilla and said it reminded me of you. You were offended. And I mean… fair. I can see where offence was had. But honestly, I thought it was the greatest compliment I could have given you at the time.

Tarzan was one of our favourite Disney movies when I small. We used to blast out the soundtrack every Saturday morning in the car on the way to dance school; singing at the top of our lungs, ‘I wanna know about these strangers like me’. So naturally when I saw the plastic gorilla in that box I thought of Kala, Tarzan’s mum. She always reminded me of you; fighting ferociously for the child that you love, protecting me from real life Sabors and opening your arms and effectively adopting an array of Tarzans, who for whatever reasons were in search of a home and you offered them yours. And no matter how badly any of us trash the camp, you’re always supportive, forever loving and wildly patient; attributes that I’ve always admired in you because honestly, some of the antics have truly been that of a troop of infant apes.

So yes, I chose a gorilla to represent you. However, I hope it offends that little bit less knowing why. Side note: do you want to watch Tarzan today? It’s been a while.  

Throughout my life you’ve not only taught me about the kind of person that I want to be, but about determination and finding strength in the face of adversity. One of my favourite teachings from you is a lesson I’m not sure you intended to give. We were late for a train one day and you started running. I was trotting gently behind you, convinced that the energy expenditure was unnecessary, but boy was I wrong. We made it by the skin of our teeth; wisps of lagging hair nearly caught in the closing doors. Once we were on, we walked down the train panting and searching eagerly for seats. We found an empty six-seater and began to settle. As we did you turned to me and said:

“When you see the train coming, run and don’t stop. Even when you think you’ve made it, you don’t stop until you’re on that train and the doors have closed behind you.”

At the time, you said in context of us catching a Southeastern train to London Victoria, but it registered as so much more to me.

Life is made up of multiple train tracks and trains are our opportunities veering us off in different directions and taking us to where we’re meant to be. So, when you see one coming, run and don’t stop. You do your best to seize every opportunity, least you idly stand as they all pass you by. But remember, everyone has missed a train and it’s jarring, because missed opportunities can make you feel like you’ve failed or you’re falling behind. But this is never the case. Behind every missed train is another ready to take you to where you need to go. You just have to run.

A lot to take from a little statement, I know, but that’s what I see when I look at you. You’re always running for trains, and sometimes you catch them and we celebrate your achievement. But, sometimes you don’t. However, everything happens for a reason and you always take the time to appreciate the things that you encounter on your alternative journey that you would have missed in your original plan. To top it off, I’ve never known you to let missing a train prevent you from getting to where you meant to be and I have always admired that about you.

Always run for the train; a lesson from my mother that I will never forget.

Anyway, that’s enough of a walk down memory lane. I think there’s enough public affection here to get you through to next year. So, till then, from this feral child to her gorilla mother, Happy Mother’s Day!

Lots of love,

Chiedza xxx

P.S. *Sips Tea*

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