In this moving essay, guest contributor Chiamaka Okafor shares how her mother’s sacrifice paved the way for her to grow and become.
There are certain stories passed down to us without us ever asking for them. They arrive silently, woven into the fabric of our daily lives, so unassuming that we don’t realise how they shape us until years later. For me, the story of motherhood came not from books or movies. It came from the woman I called mother — her gestures, her silence, her tenacity, and her moments of defeat. Being a daughter is intently watching, sometimes unwillingly, the unfolding of a woman’s life, which is both entirely her own and, in some ways, given to you. Motherhood, from my perspective, is more than just a story of love and sacrifice. Its complexity and contradictions forced me to rethink the easy clichés we repeat about women and their ability to endure. It’s about my mother’s sacrifice.
I grew up thinking of my mother as an unshakeable pillar. She always seemed to know what to do, how to navigate a world that often felt hostile. However, as I grew older, I became more aware of the cracks: the sighs that escaped after a long day, the moments when she appeared to withdraw within herself, the subtle ways she swallowed disappointment. That’s when I realised motherhood is not a superhuman role, but a deeply human one. It means balancing an endless number of responsibilities while also trying to appear strong, even when it seems impossible. From my perspective as a daughter, I learnt that motherhood was as much about perseverance as it was about joy.
Looking back, what strikes me the most is how much of motherhood exists in silence. The things that endure are not the lectures or the stern warnings, but the images etched quietly into memory. My mother peeling yam in the kitchen before dawn, her wrapper tied loosely at her waist. My mother pressing my uniform carefully with the iron, even though her own blouse was missing a button. At the time, these details seemed ordinary, hardly worth noticing. But in retrospect, I see they formed the very architecture of my childhood.
The discipline of a mother’s sacrifice
My mother spoke the language of sacrifice fluently, though she never said it out loud.She disguised it in everyday exchanges. Even though my father provided in many ways, his job as a policeman kept him away most of the time. This left her to orchestrate the daily stretching of resources and manage the never-ending list of needs. She often placed herself last so that others could come first. I remember being in primary school and craving the biscuits that some of my classmates bought in shiny packs. When I asked for them, she shook her head and offered me roasted groundnuts instead, saying they would “fill my stomach better.” I sulked at the time, but now I see her choices as the quiet math of survival, a mother’s way of ensuring stability with what was available.
She hardly ever bought anything new for herself. There was a pair of sandals she wore until the straps frayed, and I only noticed when I saw her trying to glue them back one night. I was old enough to be embarrassed, yet she still wore them to church on Sundays. That image stayed with me — not for its pain, but for the quiet dignity with which women hold their lives together. She was willing to appear less polished so that I would appear taken care of. Sacrifice, I learned, is rarely about glory; it is about priority.
And in those sacrifices, there was also discipline. She did not indulge every request or shield me from every lack. Looking back, I realise that was her way of teaching me how to live within bounds, how to differentiate between desire and necessity. I’ve carried that lesson into adulthood, sometimes reluctantly. It influenced not just how I view money, but how I view responsibility. Her sacrifices taught me that being a mother means constant negotiation between what you want and what is possible, between self and others.
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The weight of resilience
Resilience is a word that is often thrown around, but I saw it lived every day in my mother. She carried her share of life’s difficulties with a poise that made them appear lighter than they were. My mother held together the small cracks of daily life that children notice the most. I remember evenings when soup was running low, and instead of panicking, she would quietly add more water and a little oil, making it stretch long enough for everyone to eat. Or the frantic mornings when I couldn’t find a pair of socks, and she’d just laugh, hand me two different ones, and say, “Nobody will notice, just be going.” These moments seemed routine but looking back, I understand they were her way of softening the edges of life so that it never felt as hard as it really was.
Resilience, I learnt from her, does not mean the absence of difficulty. This has to do with facing difficulties without allowing them to define the home’s atmosphere. It was there in the way she returned from the market, exhausted from bargaining, but still prepared dinner with care. It was there in her presence at every PTA meeting, even after long days, with a focus that suggested nothing else was on her mind. Watching her, I realised that resilience was not some abstract quality—it was the sum of these everyday acts of showing up and refusing to let exhaustion win.
And yet, resilience came at a price. It meant she had to wear strength like armour, even when I suspect she wanted to take it off. I rarely saw her cry. I rarely saw her admit to being overwhelmed. And, as much as I loved her toughness, I longed to see her softness too. That was the paradox: her strength both protected me and silenced her vulnerability. It taught me that strength can be both a survival and a burden—a lesson I still struggle with today.
Tenderness in the ordinary
For all the sacrifice and resilience, what lingers most in memory are the simple moments of affection. My mother’s love was not loud or spectacular; it lived in everyday gestures that, at the time, I almost overlooked. It was in the way she packed my school lunch so it didn’t spill, in the way she would slip an extra twenty naira into my palm for “puff-puff” and biscuit, even after refusing something bigger. It was in the way she stood at the gate to my school until she saw me safely inside. These small gestures were her way of saying, “I see you. I love you”. And perhaps because they were so ordinary, they were much more precious.
One of my most cherished memories is of her plaiting my hair on Sunday evenings. I would sit on the floor, head tilted, complaining that it hurt. She would scold me lightly, “Stay still,” then soften her grip. The style was never elaborate, but I went to school the next day with neat, fresh braids that showed the world that someone had taken the time to prepare me. That was her tenderness—realistic, sometimes stern, but always rooted in love.
Her tenderness was also evident in moments of quiet solidarity. Like when I failed a maths test in secondary school and came home expecting to be scolded. Instead, she sat me down, sighed, and said, “Try again next our next test.” It wasn’t that she excused failure, but she understood the difference between discipline and encouragement. Those small moments of softness balanced the weight of her resilience. They reminded me that motherhood was not all sacrifice and hardness; it was also gentle, long-lasting caring.
Lessons carried forward
The lessons I carry now are layered, sometimes weighty, but always enduring. From my mother, I learnt responsibility, resilience, and the meaning of sacrifice. But they also leave me with questions. Must sacrifice always be silent? Must resilience always mean masking vulnerability? Watching my mother, I learnt both what to appreciate and what to question. Her life was my first education, but it also left me with the freedom to choose differently.
I am not yet a mother, but I can already sense how much of her will live in me when the time comes. Not just her habits, but her contradictions. I wonder if I will — like her — put myself second too often, or if I’ll give myself more space to breathe. I wonder if I’ll repeat her silences or come up with new words to explain what she couldn’t. Motherhood, as I have seen it, is a beautiful and complicated inheritance. It is not only about what is being passed down, but also about what is modified.
And yet, despite the intricacies, one thing remains clear: love. My mother’s unglamorous, but steady love influenced me in ways that I will always carry. Through her eyes, I saw sacrifice, resilience, and tenderness woven together into something enduring. As her daughter, I see both the weight and the beauty. Perhaps, that is the truest lesson of motherhood as I have known it: it is never singular, never straightforward. It is weighty and flawed, but it is also the most quietly extraordinary thing I have ever seen.
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