Her love for me felt so tangible I could almost touch it, but she did not tolerate any nonsense. rriving at our gate, I tried to tidy my school uniform, socks and shoes, wiping my oily hands on the skirt part of my uniform. My mom was waiting at the gate, with a frustrated look on her face, and a cane in her right hand. I contemplated how to run past her into the house; should I run towards the far end of the gate where there seemed to be more space? Should I stand still, until she lost concentration, then I could whizz right past her? Or should I make a quick move, and run in between her jean clad legs, as she stood, legs apart? I was that tiny. It was not the first time this was happening and it wasn’t going to be the last. Mom did not own a car, she never learned to drive. In view of this, I and the other neighborhood school children walked to and from school which was about a 15-20 minute walking distance or occasionally got a lift from other parents. Well, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that I had arrived home late from school again. School had closed hours ago, but instead of going straight home, I had stopped to play ampe with a group of girls, my tiny body wriggling each time I jumped to take my turn, then afterwards we had stopped to pluck mangoes, to chase a hen and her twelve black and yellow chicks and eventually, stopped by the waakye woman’s place at Community Eight; the waakye lady giving me two small spoonfuls of the rich brown looking rice and beans, some gari, macaroni and a little fish, in exchange for my fifty pesewas. She topped it up with golden rich tomato stew, and a heavenly smelling shito, and wrapped it in deep green waakye leaves. Mom normally packed lunch for me, but on occasion she would give me some money to buy lunch. This was one such day. Perhaps it was instances like this that made me develop a love for street food and local food. Later, as the aroma of the waakye-leavesinfused-food wafted into my nostrils, and I perched on a big stone to eat, I forgot that I had to hurry up and go home, or my mother’s cane would be waiting for me. I look back and I will describe my mom’s love for me as tough love spurred on by the Biblical principle of sparing the rod and spoiling the child. She was a strict disciplinarian but also loved me to bits. Her love for me felt so tangible I could almost touch it, but she did not tolerate any nonsense. “ 4 The Birthday Journal
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