Mothers Day 13/5/2012

My mother, Mrs. Paulina Maya Choram, in her traditional regalia

"This is dedicated to my precious mum, Koko, and all the wonderful mother all over the world. This poem is to you all in as much as it is for my mom."

                                                              - echoes of the hills 

                                                                  

Tororot, I pray for my mum today,

Though I be far from her reach

I know that her love remains rich

Funny how, try as I might, the English

Language is under stocked of words of praise

When young, my mum chewed bananas

And fed me with them (there were no blenders);

She carried me on her back, metal box on her head

All the way from Kapenguria to Kacheliba

When water was scarce, she gurgled water in her mouth

Held me mid-air and sprayed water on my body

Back then, there were no handkerchiefs,

So mum sucked mucus from my nostrils

Then spat it out

“My son,” she always tells me,

“Good fortune is never pulled by a rope—

Be patient, don’t lie, and don’t steal”.

Whenever I see my mum

I forget all my problems; she is like a sanctuary to me,

She is like middle pole of a hut, holding my emotions,

There is something about mothers, I don’t know which,

Pulling us to the center of our existence

My mum is the uncrowned goddess,

The unsung heroine, the unrewarded achiever,

Other people have their achievements written on paper,

My mother’s are spread across the years of my life,

The referees to her curriculum vitae are Tororot and the

hills of Kacheliba,

Like all success stories, she knows pain too,

I don’t know where she gets her strength from—

most probably from Tororot— because her spirit

is sturdy like the bark of an akoretee tree;

Most mothers buy their sons gifts, my mother

Gave me hope and cheer, with it she always tells me,

“Mondanyu (my son), all my blessings are upon you,

Usichafuke roho (don’t get your spirit dirtied), utafaulu

(you will succeed)”

You all know this Tororot, so I pray to you today,

To thank you for keeping us well through the heat of the day

For all along, no searing heat has burnt out our energies

And for my mum, she has always kept pace

You hold the future, Tororot, a mere pilgrim like me

Cannot predict tomorrow, you know how our graphs will rise

You are the owner of the Cartesian Plane

But if you will allow, Tororot, this Mother’s Day

Grant my mum a little more cheer, a little more of the echo,

And in your divine plan, one day, reward her

Through me or others (you work in mysterious ways)

With a little more of what other pilgrims have

This will be to your glory, and imagine Tororot

How that will speak more of the value of Hope?