As it is said that no two siblings from the same parents are the same, so it is when it comes to love. Love means different things to different people. For me, love in its truest form is my mother.
I recall a moment over a decade ago, my mom stopped by a grocery store on our way to my boarding school. She needed to pick up one last item as she had been shopping for weeks to make sure I lacked for nothing at school. A few minutes after she walked into the grocery store, she rushed back in a frenzy. She realised she had lost her purse; a purse that housed my school fees, hostel fees, taxi fare, and my pocket money. We searched frantically for it but it was gone. Was it lost? Was it stolen? I guess we’ll never know.
For some, this wouldn’t have been that much of a deal; we all live in Lagos anyway and we know the state of the land. But for us, this was hell. You see, I earned a living by selling drinks at a beer parlour she owned. She had been a teacher during her NCE years but needed to make more money to cater for my needs. So, she hawked fruits in trays for years until she had enough money saved to own a beer parlour. A beer parlour might seem like an odd choice but you see, she knew the demand of the area. Labourers after each day’s work would celebrate with food and drinks so the idea made a lot of sense.
Although sensible, it came with a lot of risks. She had to deal with spontaneous fights over trivial matters, alcoholics, harassment from corrupt policemen and so on. It wasn’t easy but my mom pulled through. At the time, I didn’t understand the sacrifices she made because I literally got everything I wanted – nice clothes, shoes, I even got a PlayStation. She could have used this money on herself; her mates were always adorned in the finest clothes and jewellery, anyway but she chose me as a worthy investment. Little ol’ me.
If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.
