In a world that idealises mothers, children also deserve space to voice their own experiences within the family.
In Nigerian society, a mother’s place in the family is sacred and garners a certain level of respect from her children. It takes a level of distrust for children to distance themselves from their parents, especially their mother. It is an extremely daunting place to be in as a child, and it is a difficult situation to explain to others who cherish and respect their own mothers. As the youngest child, I could see how my mother interacted with my older sisters. This positioning helped me to understand who my mother was and how I could successfully coexist with her. I learnt, from a young age, the capacity of a mother’s love and her ability to irrevocably hurt her child.
As my mother’s youngest daughter, I was her “handbag” — I would follow her everywhere. When I was younger, my mother would read Bible stories to my sisters and I and pray with us every night. I remember how she baked Smarties cake for our birthdays and made yellow pompoms from yarn for my entire team’s march past in primary school. So many of our friends felt that our mum — who is an artist — was so cool. During Christmas, she would host parties at the local polo club, where we all got pictures and gifts with Santa.
As a stay-at-home mum, she would pack our lunches and oversee the running of the house alongside the household staff. During some of those years, she also taught art at schools. She turned this passion into an after-school program where she taught art and drama to our age group. At that time, she would always say that she did this so we wouldn’t spend all our time after school watching TV. She wanted us to develop our imaginations, to play and explore our community and find ourselves. My mother did all of these incredible things that, by society’s standards, marked her as a good mother. However, there were many things that she did that contradicted my belief in her love for us.
When I started questioning my mother’s devotion
Like every child, I was happy to have my mother well and alive. I would listen to everything she said and think that it was as true as the gospel. The cracks in my frame of mind started before I turned seven. At that age, I couldn’t help but draw closer to my mother. When she felt like playing the role of mother, she would go above and beyond. However, she also had a vicious temper that had her children running away from her. It was often difficult to determine her mood, whether good or bad. She said unforgivable things that would make you cut ties with anyone else. She often talked down to us, chipping away at our confidence and any sense of self-worth. At seven, I knew not to allow my mother to define not only my mood but also the sum of my character.
My mother is also fervently religious; she would accuse her small children of being sinners. During our prayers, which were frequent and stretched on endlessly, she would ask us to pray away our sins. If we ever got sick, she would tell us that God was punishing us for our sins, and she would ask, “What did you do?” Living like this was exhausting. Whenever we made mistakes and she wanted to punish us, my mother would enter a terrifying rage, hitting us repeatedly until the domestic worker cries and begs on her knees for her to stop.
This scene replayed itself in various forms throughout my childhood. The only reason I could tell it was abnormal was the way the other people who were present in these moments reacted. Otherwise, we might have believed it was nothing more than a regular spanking.
When apologies don’t fix anything
As we grew older, my mother became less inclined to play the good mother. Whenever she saw the opportunity, she would shut herself behind a door with us on the other side of it. This habit snowballed into her missing birthdays, school visiting days, school performances, boarding school packing days and more. There were many times we were forgotten about and not picked up early from school. We were usually the last children to leave at the end of the day, sometimes even after the sun had set. It seemed as though motherhood had become a heavy burden, one she no longer wished to carry. She had come to resent being the person we asked for things, and so eventually we stopped.
In times of crisis, we never called her — we had already decided she couldn’t be the solution. The few times we confided in her, she proved our point — she could not show up for us in the ways that we needed. She would only ever offer up a prayer and never do more than that. When asked why this was, she would say that she didn’t know what she could do and would leave it at that.
I tried over the years to speak to my mother about our situation. She was quick to apologise and to move on. At first, this seemed like a good quality, but then I realised that she was uninterested in fixing the root of the issue. Although she apologised, the next day was the same — the same issues, the same comments. I felt weary in my childhood. I found myself constantly telling her, “You are sweeping things under the carpet.” Even before I became a a teenager, I was walking around on eggshells in my childhood home. I had developed the skill of reading people’s faces and their emotions, trying to make sure I knew the energy in the room.
My sisters became my sanctuary
I was lucky enough to have two sisters who offered me friendship and support. My mother’s greatest gift to me has always been my life, but more importantly, my sisters, with whom I share a special bond. From a very early age, we prioritised wanting more for ourselves and learnt to be self-sufficient. We never stopped dreaming about who we wanted to be, regardless of our situation and where we wanted to go.
A large part of this came from knowing we could not depend on our mother to guide us, so we turned to each other to figure out how to survive. If no adult in our family could truly and consistently show up for us, we figured out a way to show up for ourselves. Our lives still had to go on, whether or not our mother wanted to be there for us. By my late teens, no one pressured my mother anymore to act like a traditional mother; she did as she pleased, and it suited her.
When I was in college, my mother never reached out or called consistently. It felt like I was putting in so much effort to sustain a relationship that no longer served me, so I stopped. I sometimes called her, and when we spoke, it was short. If we had a conversation for longer than 15 minutes, it was disastrous to my mental health. It was hard explaining to people — especially those who had better relationships with their mothers — why my mother and I’s relationship was the way it was. I often felt guilty around them for not having similar experiences with my mother. Their only advice was for me to fix things — a response I resented because it placed the burden on the daughter, not the mother who set the terms of the relationship.
My mother always tried to turn the tables on us, claiming that we never came to her for anything. She told as many people as she could that her children were distancing themselves from her and that we were punishing her for past mistakes. Once, an aunt called me and angrily confronted me about my mother’s relationship with us. I yelled back, “How can a mother do these things to her children and expect us to fix everything?”
Defining my relationship with my mother on my own terms
My mother has always refused to take accountability for her past actions, either claiming to have forgotten them or offering a quick apology in an eagerness to move on. To her, anything in the past should be left in the past, and it should be easy to move on. But trauma doesn’t work like that. Silence is not healing. For a long time, I wondered if I was being unforgiving, but I have since come to understand that what I wanted was not revenge or punishment. I wanted acknowledgement. I wanted the truth to be named, so that we wouldn’t try to rebuild the foundation of our relationship on a lie.
In trying to protect my peace, I’ve had to hold space for difficult emotions — grief, anger, confusion, and even guilt. Some days I’ve felt okay, others I’ve felt like that little girl again, waiting at the school gate long after the sun has gone down. That part of me still exists, even though I’ve grown, even though I’ve healed in many ways.
As an adult, I now carry the power to define the kind of relationship I want with my mother. I’ve learnt that creating boundaries is protection and an act of love for myself. I’ve also learnt that love, especially in the context of family, is not always enough. Presence, accountability, and above all, consistency matter. I still leave space for my mother, but I’m no longer wearing myself out trying to understand our relationship. Now, I give myself the love I deserve, I surround myself with people — especially my sisters — who remind me of what it feels like to be cared for. Although I am still healing, I will always choose to show up for myself in ways my mother could not.
In the end, my story is not one of bitterness, but of survival. It is a testament to the resilience of a child who learnt how to show up for herself. In a society that respects mothers and often silences children, I have chosen truth over tradition. I’ve come to understand that it’s okay to speak openly about painful realities, even if others don’t understand. I love my mother, but I’ve also learnt to love myself enough to be honest about our story. I must move forward with grace and continue to show up for myself while taking ownership of my future.
Read more: 3 mum influencers share what keeps them going — and their best advice for new mums.
