It takes a great woman, against all odds, to raise children that turn out as the pride of the nation. Mr Gbemiga Ogunleye, a Nigerian lawyer and media scholar who is a leading light in the country’s journalism profession and the provost of the Nigerian Institute of Journalism, reveals that much in a tribute as he mourns his departed mother, Mama Ebunoluwaokangbon Ruth Ogunleye, who is survived by seven accomplished and grateful children.
My Unforgettable Mother!
By Gbemiga Ogunleye/
It was the type of call no one wants to receive. No sooner had our Abuja-bound aircraft landed than my phone rang. My younger brother, a Pastor of the Deeper Life Bible Church was on the line.
We exchanged pleasantries and I observed that he was a little bit extravagant in asking after my welfare.
I asked what the problem was, he assured me; nothing was amiss. I headed to the taxi park and boarded a taxicab to my hotel.
Hardly had I made myself comfortable in the cab when he called again. By then, I was sufficiently alarmed.
“What’s going on?” I asked. In between sobs, he managed to mumble that our mum had passed on.
There was no need to get a confirmation. Mum had been on a sickbed for some time.
Although her illness was critical, we never lost hope.
We got her the best medical care and comfort possible. She had two nurses 24/7. And of course, my sister, Lawunmi was the chief caregiver, who sacrificed everything to be with our mum.
“Oga, sorry o, what happened? Why are you crying?”
The cab driver’s voice woke me from my reverie.
The flood of tears continued. How did the Yoruba put it? Only a person not confronted with a fight calls himself a man!
Prince Nico Mbaga had the likes of my mother in mind when he sang the hit: Sweet Mother!
Mothers who sacrificed everything for their children; mothers who tolerated cantankerous husbands for the sake of their children; mothers who starved so that their children could eat.
My mother was this and more.
After 48 hours, the tears ceased and I began to ask myself if I wasn’t being ungrateful mourning my mum as I did.
She was 84, I reminded myself; all seven of us survived her; why, then, are you crying, an inner voice chided me.
Just then, my son’s WhatsApp message came in. To say it is touching is an understatement. The young man had written:
“I just heard about Grandma. I am so sorry. As the firstborn, I know how close you two were. I know how much you all loved her, how she sacrificed everything and made you the man you are today. I have heard stories from you and Aunty Bola and I can understand the history you have with her, the bonds formed through the trials and struggles of your childhood, the cushioning effects of her love and sacrifice and the triumph of the man you turned out to be.
“She lived for her children, she gave her all to see them grow up and I know, they, in turn, loved her back. If the measure of life lies in the number of people helped, then she undoubtedly lived a fulfilled life. You took care of her as best as you could, a loyal son to the end.
“Your mother has gone to rest. May we find comfort knowing she rests in peace.”
I couldn’t have put it better.
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