An essay by MUKANDI SIAME

There is a tap running. Someone is washing dishes, and I know it’s not me, and I know it’s not Mother. I am in bed with a pure white cotton sheet draped over my dark skin, leaving enough room for a leg to pop out for air. I never understood her love for white bed linen, and now I can’t live without it. I won’t leave until the brink of noon – neither will she.

I live with her now. We share meal planning, lines of gossip in the hallway and spurts of instruction. We don’t talk much, not in the way I unveil myself to my friends and lovers. I am far more open, curious and intentional with them than with her. She and I laugh, but we never cry. We neglect deep, vulnerable emotions like anger, hurt, disappointment and fear. We let them fester until they fizzle to nothing.

Initially, I was a silent accessory kept alive in the background of errands. My parents had different definitions of what an errand was. With Daddy, errands meant silent attendance of his meetings with a chance to show off how clever I was. I learned how to order from a menu and balance a fork in my left hand. With Mother, errands were loud fast, and there was always a critical shortage of money or time and sometimes both. 

I felt comfortable in both environments because the stakes were not mine. I watched the grown-ups fiddle with their napkins and silverware with the same astute gaze that I watched them haggle and choose tomatoes. It was all the same until I started to learn the difference between a dinner fork and a dessert fork and could pick a good beef stew tomato. 

I wonder what we looked like to strangers. A parent and their spitting image going through life in real-time. I wish I could go back to watch myself getting formed by my myriad of moments. Whenever I think about having a child, that is what I imagine: us side by side, living through the many unremarkable moments that form a life.

“That man could have been your father.” Mother offered the crumb, and I, a hungry pup under the table, couldn't resist.

“Which one?”

She pointed to a stubby, balding man pushing a trolley towards us. He was lecturing two stubby boys, but when he saw my Mother, he smiled. She straightened out to play the best version of herself, stuck in her photos from the eighties with the big roller set hair, statement earrings and aubergine lipstick. The man turned tender as he spoke to her, and for a brief moment, it was only them until she ripped their reality and pointed towards me. She introduced me as her katote, the first hatchling, and the man introduced his sons, but I didn’t care for their names. They sized me up, and I dared them. I was taller, dressed better and had no problem keeping myself behaved in Pick n Pay. I was the better child. Obviously.

There are many men who wanted to marry my Mother, a handful that she may have considered, but this was the only one she said could have been my father. The possibility infuriated me. I’ve never forgotten standing in the dairy aisle, listening to her soft laugh and the man’s tenderness.

I am good with secrets. True secrets go unspoken. Parental errands taught me how to recognise a secret without being told not to tell. I had a vault of Daddy’s sordid indiscretions, and this brief, innocent encounter was nothing in comparison, but it became a secret to me. I felt like I’d seen Mother naked, and I didn’t know what to do with that. Now I know that patriarchy sits inside me like a benign cancer. It sees Daddy as free and Mother as owned. I say I want her to have her own experiences; I say words of support for her adventures but recoil every time they threaten the gilded altar built for my father and the fantasies I hold about family. I see the cancer in my brothers, too. 

My parent's marriage ended successfully in death as it was vowed to. But they were flawed. Daddy’s flaws were easier to see and rebuke. His temper, his word choice, his infidelity. We idolised the man and he was both well loved and hated - a god. Mother’s flaws are smooth. She stayed passive all our lives, missing Open Day at school with the same ease that she missed church, weddings, parties, and moments laughing around the television. We knew she was there but never saw her - a ghost. Death makes children orphans, but so does life. Mother hadn’t lived in a long time. 

My parents built our house with combined sweat and tears. As individuals, their lives were imperfect, but together, they were the perfect team. They loved to take people in, and there was never enough room. Those were the days when going on holiday meant visiting a relative in another town for undefined periods of time. Ours was the holiday home. The next practical step for my parents was to finally build a home that could keep us all under one roof comfortably, no matter who visited. Daddy died a week after we moved into the house, and during the funeral, every room was packed. Now nobody visits. 

Our previous residence was just a house until we moved in and filled it with memories. It was a tight, three-bedroom house with a steamy kitchen at meal times and a sitting room with the common cheap display and ceramic poodles. We ate from the fancy plates on occasion, lost our teeth and tossed them onto the roof with a piece of charcoal for good luck. Emi at the corner shop loaned us eggs for Mother’s baking. We met our lifelong best friends in the neighbourhood and played until we got in trouble. I got my first period, lost my virginity and found my first love there. Our parents drank in the yard, dancing to endless Pépé Kallé out of big Bose speakers. They fought and made it work there.

It has taken a decade for us to decide to live again. Mother retired. She is twice my age, mostly pescatarian, and seldom eats out; she grows her food and follows a seasonal diet. Sometimes, she goes on a rampage and drinks Coca-Cola but drowns it in litres of water. She is never sick.

She has a garden that she cultivates in neat rows on one side and leaves wild on the other. From the neat side, we get tomatoes, onions, beans, eggplants and fresh maize. From the wild side, my favourite side, we get Sunta, Bondwe, Zumba, and fresh chilli. We still have fruit. We make lemon tea and scrunch our faces through sour peaches she promises will be sweet next season. Nobody goes to bed hungry. 

Mother is an orphan. She was born in a family of nine but was left with two brothers for most of her older years; Uncle Mwape lives in Nigeria, and Uncle John passed away a few months ago. He was polygamous, and his first wife, my aunty, always describes Mother as pretty. It is notable because my aunt doesn’t speak any English, so the word pretty much stands out from the smooth Tonga like a pimple. I am indifferent to Mother’s beauty––not because it is debatable but because I have developed the indifference one often does for things of their own. I have her face, and I am never plagued with thoughts of my blessed symmetry. 

I come home to her from days of frivolity and find her face in the green of her garden - not looking up from her labour. Dark skin with a mist of sweat. Her face is full, made with a generous nose, plump lips and round cheeks. Her eyes sparkle with laughter from stories she has told me many times before. Even at funerals, seeing her makes me laugh, so to me, she has a funny face. I see her until I am filled, and then I cut her stories short with a mumbling excuse. She always wishes me well.

There are differences. I was born big, but my Mother was small. Her late brother, Uncle John, said her nickname was Kochepa, the small one. What was waiflike grew into a seductive-slender she carried into her thirties until she had the twins, my youngest brothers. She is rounder now but blessed with the femininity of women raised in Kenneth Kaunda’s era. She wears white trousers like nothing bad could happen. She carries a handkerchief like it could heal a bullet wound and offers sensibility as a solution for everything. She can sashila anything, brew every local drink, braid, darn, starch and sew. She has layers of secrets that I couldn’t begin to uncover. I enjoy revealing them one at a time. 

Mother knows things. Things like how a stubby, balding man can be loved. Now I know them too. 

There are a few men who could have been my husband and one actually was. When I met him, he kept his life small because it was safe. He ate just enough for sustenance. He shaved his head bald to avoid new haircuts. He kept his dreams practical and close to home. We loved each other so desperately that we built castles in the air and imagined endless forevers in the midst of our differences. Children have the potential for an endless forever. We didn’t have any. For a girl who had a whirlwind for a father, I found his safety alluring. Whirlwinds birth storms. Children have the potential for an endless forever. We didn’t have any.

If the census people come to our home, they will find two women who have been married under this one roof. One is a widow, and the other is a divorcee. One has a husband at Memorial Park, while the other has a husband who only exists in memories. The house is much too big and soulless. There are no good memories. There are no photos on the walls because we’re not sure who lives there. We tried to make it a home with a chicken run and an orchard, but the fruit didn’t taste the same as the guavas I climbed up to eat straight from the tree. I got married in the yard on my Mother’s manicured lawn, but the lawn is dead, and that is no longer a happy memory. My brothers moved out of town to find work, my sister, Lisa, stayed on campus, and Mother was transferred to Mansa, twelve hours away. Distant relatives watched the house for us while we were away, but now the white walls are stained with the fingerprints of strangers.

Mother is back from Mansa, I am back from marriage, Lisa graduated, and together, the house has more feminine energy than ever. Marriage changes people. The man who was my husband no longer exists. He has been replaced by a chubby, vibrant man with the sort of wisdom only self-awareness gives. He is a husband and a father. Now, he grows dreadlocks to avoid needing a new haircut.

When I was a young girl, Mother often threatened that she was not one of my little friends. It is true, she wasn’t. But now that she is no longer married, nobody is better equipped to be my friend. She understands my moods, anxieties and sadness without a word. She slides me small amounts of money, acceptance and permission for the ridiculous plans I have for my life. She stays at home all the time so that I don’t have to remember to take my clothes off the washline when it rains. I haven’t told her, but her mere existence has transformed me. 

When I was ten, Daddy hit me. She was sick in bed, but I heard her ask why. In fairness, I was using silverware from the house to cook sand, so I deserved it. It was tiny and useless, but I cried so much it echoed in the narrow passage of our house. When she was better, she bought me a toy cooking set with pink and purple pots. She never punished me for being too old to play - she still doesn’t. It was the last toy I ever had, and I treasured it and passed it down intact. Her gifts are never wildly expensive, but they are always loving. When I was leaving my marital home to try and live on my own, she gave me a fridge. Mother’s love is not loud and lyrical, but it is silent and consistent, which is what I need love to be. I am her only daughter. She never says it, but for her, there is no one else but me, so she makes it work.

Anyone who shares my bedroom and my DNA becomes my sister. Diana and Alice were the first; they taught me how to be a woman. Alice was so charming that Daddy could never be angry at her. She died first from a botched abortion. Diana was so diligent that Daddy trusted her. An autoimmune disease claimed her before she had a chance to pass it down. Now I have Lisa. Daddy loved her because he loved her father, his baby brother whose life came to an abrupt end in a road accident. Lisa teaches me as much as I teach her. 

When I decided that I was getting a divorce, I cried in bed alone all through Christmas until I decided to get up. I found my dream flat on the side of town closest to my office. Things were working out. It was convenient, buzzing and fast, but somehow, I was lonely. From a blended family home to boarding school to a marriage, I hadn’t considered how strange it would be to spend all my core moments alone. Then, the pandemic and the isolation started. I was typing on my phone, watching videos and texting friends, but days would pass without speaking a word to another living being. There is something embarrassing about admitting you are lonely, and I finally understood why solitary confinement is a special punishment in prison. I ate grilled butternut and chicken on a loop until it became the taste of loneliness.

One day, Mother popped up with her rattling Land Cruiser and took me to a ranch across the city. I drank gin and danced around a swimming pool. At 2 AM, we rolled down Great North Road while Bowman Lusambo sped around slapping people in the clubs, and we laughed. I threw up when she dropped me off, and when I slept that night, there was more to my world than survival. 

There are a million ways that she has saved me. She is not my friend, but I have a friend in her. Lisa does, too. Lisa and her boyfriend are an ‘I love you’ couple. They call each other often to check in, and each call ends with the garnish of love. With Mother, you never hear the three magical words. You just assume that if there is a roof, food and no conflict, there is love. I have never craved the sentiment or mourned its absence.

In an argument, the boy I loved said I withheld love like a toxic parent. I laughed because it was a funny thing to say while he cheated on me, but also, I’d loved him most, and he knew it. I don’t think I will ever love any human the way I loved him––that’s a good thing. It was a deep, unconditional love without premise, principle or accountability. A love only a child can give. Looking back, I can see what he meant. Saying it would have required some form of growth and healing to happen, and I wasn’t there yet, and neither was he. I healed, and the love died.

Love as a verb is wonderful, my favourite, but words are the only way to keep a record of it. It is why we exchange solemn vows when we marry and sign letters when we divorce. Without words, you don’t know where something begins and ends. I know this now.

I wish I were more comfortable around the glass edges of vulnerability. The closer someone is to the real me, the harder it is to say because I am always showing. I will cook, clean, catch a bullet and bring down the moon with more ease than I would hug Mother and tell her I love her. She must know that I do, right?

I was driving Lisa to the bus station, where she would take a twelve-hour bus ride to visit her Mother. She had a long journey ahead, so I woke up to drive her to the station at 2 AM. When we were done with the logistics and pleasantries of travel, I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I couldn’t find it in myself. In my healing, I promised myself that I would be better, that I would do better than Mother, but there I was, paralysed. 

My heart was full of fondness and care for her safety, but my lips were sealed, and I avoided her eyes. On my solitary drive back home, I hoped that my actions spoke louder than my words, but when I played back the moment, I noticed that there was no awkward pause on her end. She doesn’t expect anything from me. Lisa doesn’t expect me to say that I love her. Does she know that I do? I played Travis Scott’s FEIN to escape further introspection. 

I run from myself sometimes. When I decided to get married, I was running from my life, the house and the consequence of a child born out of wedlock. I genuinely thought that marriage would fix it. I would finally have a house with clean white spaces and happy family photos on the walls. At only twenty-three, I wanted to hide shame with a white wedding.

I did not expect Mother’s reaction to my marriage or my divorce. She nodded and supported but said little. Maybe she knew I was pregnant and hiding it. Maybe she knew it was doomed to fail. By my own conviction, I’d become a prisoner of her goodness, steadfastness, and beauty. I looked like her, but I thought I could be like her. I’ve seen the photos of her Valentine’s Day wedding. I was born in May that same year. She has the patience of a vulture. She can wait through anything. She waited through our childhood and a trying marriage. Growing up, she never placed her dreams on my head. She watched like a chaperone while I tried, tested, fumbled and eventually triumphed. Once, she mentioned that she wanted me to only marry after I’d completed my master’s and bought my own car. When I told her I was getting married before the accomplishments, I caught her silence and interpreted it as disappointment. The shotgun wedding was floral and pretty; she looked lovely, but I’d never seen a Mother of the bride so silent. I haven’t found the courage to ask her how she felt as I walked her path. My groom’s Mother, however, fell to the floor crying, “no divorce”. If we were wise, we would have seen that as an omen. 

Mother’s house has no rules. Everyone is over twenty-five, and she trusts us to be guided by our own goodness. She never yells about bedtime. When something is dirty, she cleans it. She likes the food I cook and spends nights watching football. She is probably the best housemate I have ever had. As two women who have been married before, we are familiar with the labour of viewing the self through an unforgiving male gaze, so here, in this house, we do as we please. I hope to renovate it one day and fill it with the furnishings of its spirit. This is the house I will always count as the place where I discovered who my Mother was. In this house, we have laughed at many things, many people and ourselves. 

A chain of unfortunate events led me back home, but I feel like I am in the right place at the right time. In the place of love, I readily take acceptance. My Mother has accepted me, so I fear no one. I walk into spaces with curiosity, warmth and exploration because she has fed me with hers since I was born. I don’t know what she thinks of my divorce, but I suppose she has accepted it because she has accepted me.

The clock is ticking, not with the fervency of a bomb but with an intentional slow wind. This is natural. If you love long enough, you see that living things age, and then they die. Mother’s hands are wrinkled, but now, so are mine. Her crown is full of grey hairs, and mine sprouted its first four. I worry that I have ended the line. That the gap between her and the next generation is growing wider. That they will never know the sound of her laugh. I wonder what Mother’s life would be like if I never lived. 

Grief filled the room the night I laboured through stillbirth. There was too much blood lost, too much hopelessness to risk intervention. Dead babies are harder to push out because they can’t help themselves. Grief dulled everything down to nothing. There was no life flashing before my eyes, not Daddy, not Diana, not Lisa, not my brothers, not our house, not my dogs, not my boyfriend turned fiancé turned husband turned almost father. Nothing mattered. Not the nurses buzzing around trying to save as many lives as possible - I was not the only one dying. Everyone in the emergency room was at different stages of negotiation for life against death, and I have never seen life and death coexist so actively.

For the first time, I was unable to participate. Miss First in class, employee of the month, could not think, speak, cook, clean, serve or people please her way out of the situation. Nothing was real but Mother at my feet. Mother lost a father, Mother, husband, siblings and possibly her youth. She is so used to the greedy snap of loss that she expects it. I lay there blinking weakly, and she had already detached from me. I decided there and then that I’d live. That I’d let the son dying inside me go, and if anyone had to leave the hospital without their child, it would be me and not her - not Mother. I opened my eyes to find Mother at my feet. Her face was stoic, but her heartbreak willed me back to life. Maybe she had always been a Mother, or my birth turned her into one. I delivered a dead son and gave it to the nurse to take away. It took me two months, Mother’s potions and Lisa’s potato salad, to rise from my sickbed. Today, I am not a mother.

Mother’s heart is too big for all of us. She went to a family funeral and returned with a new daughter, Joy, a little girl recovered from the limp grasp of an alcoholic Mother. The details are murky. Joy is not yet my sister, and I watch her like a boil. She rarely sleeps through the night only answers a question if the answer is one you’d like. She plays out of sight; she lies, she laughs with her hand covering her mouth. She spends too much time with Mother, so she has a taste for Nigerian movies and uses colonial words like moreover. No child should know the things Joy knows. Mother braids her hair and buys her pink clothes, filling in the blanks of a childhood lost to hardship.

Mother’s love preserves, perseveres and saves. I wonder how much of that love she has left for herself. Lately, I think she is in love. The light, bubbly kind that makes her use her small, soft voice on the phone. She returns to the version of herself that wears aubergine lipstick, but this time, it is with both the care and recklessness of a master. She knows when to pour, and when she does, I wince at the magnitude. I hope to grow into the expanse of her love so that I can learn her capacity for grace and forgiveness.

Since my divorce, I have deepened my friendships, broadened my horizons and relearned love. Love used to be one of the secrets I kept, but now I share it. I want love to be a lesson we share, a table we all eat from, a warm memory and a covering through tough times. I try not to cringe at Mother’s stories, and I try not to lie when I share mine. I bring my lovers to her. She examines them with a gentle eye, warns me of their flaws, and tells me their fathers were Daddy’s friends. We sit in the peace of our past as we embrace the future. I am falling in love at a time when I must decide my future, but she is in love at a time when she is living hers. We debate, we negotiate, but, in the end, we still love.

 ***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MUKANDI SIAME is a writer and brand strategist devoted to books, dogs and one-pot rice dishes. Her short stories Landing On Clouds and No Strings Attached were runner-ups in the Zambia Women Writers Award and Kalemba Short Story Prize 2023, respectively. She contributes to Nkwazi, AFREADA and writes a personal newsletter called Kandi’s Notes. She believes great stories can change the world.

*Image by Barthelemy de Mazenod on Unsplash