Mother had to raise 13 of us alone
Jan 12, 2009
IN honour of the family, <i>The New Vision</i> would like to celebrate the readers’ most cherished family heroes. Below, <b>Jacobs Odongo</b> writes about his heroine — his mother.
IN honour of the family, The New Vision would like to celebrate the readers’ most cherished family heroes. Below, Jacobs Odongo writes about his heroine — his mother.
THE six girls, aged between two and 13, all burst into tears. The only son, who was around, walked out trying to refrain from crying. He had had enough of this. But he knew his mother’s perpetual nagging would not come to an end soon.
No. At least not when she was still labouring with 13 children left behind by her husband (my father) Genesis Ochaki who seemed never to have ever listened to Lucky Dube’s Remember Me; he must have listened to the other—God Bless The Women—and therefore wanted to see if his wife could shoulder the weight of the world on her shoulders. That was 1997, but the memory is still fresh.
I had come in for supper to find Jeres Ngabiroch, my mother lamenting about the pain she was going through in looking after the children alone. She said she was on the verge of dumping us at our father’s doorstep. I immediately accused her of acting like a greedy and selfish villager who waited for people to sit at the dining table before beginning her stressful lamentations. An argument ensued. At the height of it, I told her to go ahead with her threat and added: “In any case, I know you are too broke to take us all to Kampala.â€
Those words stung like a wasp. I knew I was wrong, but had found myself trying to defend my siblings against my mother’s nagging. The children felt those words. The room and the food
they had now stopped eating, must have felt it too. Then, letting out a heavy sigh, my mother revealed her other option: “I’m going to walk out of this home never to come back . You think I’m too old to get another man?†The rest of her statements drowned in wails from my siblings.
In our family, this was the usual life, day in day out. We were all tired of it. Mother nagged me! But she, too, once confessed during one of her bright moments — and these were very few — that she did not do it intentionally. She said she realised later that she had been barking at us. “Let me suffer now for your sake so that each of you may not suffer in the future,†she always said. It was her way of reassuring us, her way of making us appreciate the hardships and learn from it.
Mother must have thought her biggest burden was bringing up her children single-handedly. In
the middle of the night, she must have been praying so bitterly and so softly for her children’s education.
She often said there was no problem with a man leaving his wife as long he continued supporting the children. Then, to all these prayers, God added another weight on her already sagging shoulders;
disability of her children.
The first born, Juliet Seketa, had a hearing impairment in the early 1990s, which the family attributed to witchcraft. Then in 1999, a similar problem befell Oliver and a few months later, her twin brother Jacobs joined the sad queue. That was the peak of stress for her. She was left to wonder who would be next.
When I remember those late 1990s and early 2000 when porridge made regular supper in my family, when all the shop owners in the locality had mother’s name in their debtors’ books, the days of nothing but total uncertainty, I cannot help but adore her like a goddess.
When dad lost his job in Jinja and came to Kampala in search of another job, breaking his marital vows in the process, mother became everything. She assumed a father’s role. With four children whose school fees had to be paid in secondary school, the world looked upside down for mother.
Household possessions were sold to pay school fees. My siblings, including my twin sister, had to study in turns because mama could not afford to pay all the fees.
Eleven years since dad left us, mother no longer nags. She is proud of her achievements and remains steadfast during trying moments. Her older children having completed their studies are now helping her with the younger ones.
Recently, I asked her what she regretted most. I wanted to see if she would rant about the ‘happiness’ she sacrificed to raise us. To my surprise, she said what hurt her most was being unable to save enough to put up a house of her own.
Of course, I soothed her by assuring her that that wish would be fulfilled by those children she struggled to raise as gratitude to her effort.
When I look back at the times when porridge passed for a sumptuous supper, I get the temptation to worship my mother. In mother, we have an idol and a figure of inspiration.
At the end of the month, she earned only sh300, but put in extra effort to put food on the table.
Born 44 years ago in Nebbi, mother only studied up to S3 before getting married to Genesis Ochaki.
Please send in your hero/heroine of the family stories. The article should be between 800-1,200 words, accompanied with a family picture or of the person you are writing about. If you have an interesting story, but do not know how to present it, you can request for a reporter by calling 0414 337 127 or SMS Vision (leave a space) your request and send to 8198. Your hero/heroine could still be living or one who has already passed on. You can also listen to Vision Voice from Monday to Friday for some of the best stories. The winning story will earn that family a dinner for 20 family members.
THE six girls, aged between two and 13, all burst into tears. The only son, who was around, walked out trying to refrain from crying. He had had enough of this. But he knew his mother’s perpetual nagging would not come to an end soon.
No. At least not when she was still labouring with 13 children left behind by her husband (my father) Genesis Ochaki who seemed never to have ever listened to Lucky Dube’s Remember Me; he must have listened to the other—God Bless The Women—and therefore wanted to see if his wife could shoulder the weight of the world on her shoulders. That was 1997, but the memory is still fresh.
I had come in for supper to find Jeres Ngabiroch, my mother lamenting about the pain she was going through in looking after the children alone. She said she was on the verge of dumping us at our father’s doorstep. I immediately accused her of acting like a greedy and selfish villager who waited for people to sit at the dining table before beginning her stressful lamentations. An argument ensued. At the height of it, I told her to go ahead with her threat and added: “In any case, I know you are too broke to take us all to Kampala.â€
Those words stung like a wasp. I knew I was wrong, but had found myself trying to defend my siblings against my mother’s nagging. The children felt those words. The room and the food
they had now stopped eating, must have felt it too. Then, letting out a heavy sigh, my mother revealed her other option: “I’m going to walk out of this home never to come back . You think I’m too old to get another man?†The rest of her statements drowned in wails from my siblings.
In our family, this was the usual life, day in day out. We were all tired of it. Mother nagged me! But she, too, once confessed during one of her bright moments — and these were very few — that she did not do it intentionally. She said she realised later that she had been barking at us. “Let me suffer now for your sake so that each of you may not suffer in the future,†she always said. It was her way of reassuring us, her way of making us appreciate the hardships and learn from it.
Mother must have thought her biggest burden was bringing up her children single-handedly. In
the middle of the night, she must have been praying so bitterly and so softly for her children’s education.
She often said there was no problem with a man leaving his wife as long he continued supporting the children. Then, to all these prayers, God added another weight on her already sagging shoulders;
disability of her children.
The first born, Juliet Seketa, had a hearing impairment in the early 1990s, which the family attributed to witchcraft. Then in 1999, a similar problem befell Oliver and a few months later, her twin brother Jacobs joined the sad queue. That was the peak of stress for her. She was left to wonder who would be next.
When I remember those late 1990s and early 2000 when porridge made regular supper in my family, when all the shop owners in the locality had mother’s name in their debtors’ books, the days of nothing but total uncertainty, I cannot help but adore her like a goddess.
When dad lost his job in Jinja and came to Kampala in search of another job, breaking his marital vows in the process, mother became everything. She assumed a father’s role. With four children whose school fees had to be paid in secondary school, the world looked upside down for mother.
Household possessions were sold to pay school fees. My siblings, including my twin sister, had to study in turns because mama could not afford to pay all the fees.
Eleven years since dad left us, mother no longer nags. She is proud of her achievements and remains steadfast during trying moments. Her older children having completed their studies are now helping her with the younger ones.
Recently, I asked her what she regretted most. I wanted to see if she would rant about the ‘happiness’ she sacrificed to raise us. To my surprise, she said what hurt her most was being unable to save enough to put up a house of her own.
Of course, I soothed her by assuring her that that wish would be fulfilled by those children she struggled to raise as gratitude to her effort.
When I look back at the times when porridge passed for a sumptuous supper, I get the temptation to worship my mother. In mother, we have an idol and a figure of inspiration.
At the end of the month, she earned only sh300, but put in extra effort to put food on the table.
Born 44 years ago in Nebbi, mother only studied up to S3 before getting married to Genesis Ochaki.
Please send in your hero/heroine of the family stories. The article should be between 800-1,200 words, accompanied with a family picture or of the person you are writing about. If you have an interesting story, but do not know how to present it, you can request for a reporter by calling 0414 337 127 or SMS Vision (leave a space) your request and send to 8198. Your hero/heroine could still be living or one who has already passed on. You can also listen to Vision Voice from Monday to Friday for some of the best stories. The winning story will earn that family a dinner for 20 family members.