Solely For My Dearest Mother, Eunice F. Mogaji

My mother is a chī;
The canopy that houses wisdom
Wisdom that bears honey,
Honey that attracts ants of honour

My mother is supreme;
The asylum that accommodates understandin’
The balm that calms every pain
Betwixt her arms, there I find solace

My mother is a honeycomb;
Where knowledge makes a home,
and a pound where motherhood swims

My mother is a witch;
A rare Afrikan witch
That fights against the dart of ill-luck
Catapulted from the enemy of declination
With the aid of her effective weapon —prayer

My mother is a warrior,
Who gallantly stands in the warfront,
Combating with meekness and lowliness
For she is the Joseph of her home
That sees what was never was—clearly
Maybe a prophetess. Who knows?

My mother is a goddess
Maybe: the wife of God with no additional ‘S’
That does half in a moon—reproach
and the remains—to cuddle with love

My mother is a nurse;
The only nurse, who runs helter-skelter
As though a guardian angel
To safe me from dying at infanthood
and guards me like a hood in time of coldness
Caresses me to lie while she suffers insomnia

In the heart of my mother
Lies a still water
That endures stones of hurdles,
Arrows of humiliations
and logs of slanders
and tornadoes of pains
Yet, my mother remains still

My mother is a gold statue, a diamond;
A priceless treasure which glimmers
Like the reflection of a sun:
In the four cardinal directions of the cosmos

My mother is my mother,
Not anyone else’s own

My mother is my first lover—a dearest wife
Who
Gave
Me
My
First
Kiss
At birth

About the Author

F Ayodele Mojisoluwa

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