MUM STORIES: I celebrate my mother's tough love

My mother, Esther Kamburi, has mastered the perfect mix of love and discipline. I would like to celebrate her today.

Growing up, she partnered very well with my father in ensuring that they brought up kids who were disciplined and hardworking.

They seemed to operate on an unwritten schedule that ensured we were always doing something at any particular time.

STRICT DISCIPLINARIAN

My father’s caning was organised, properly communicated beforehand, and done using “approved” caning tools, probably because he is a trained teacher. Unlike him, my mother could cane you any time, any place and with anything that was readily accessible.

She was ready to beat you to pulp (or the mistake in you, as she loved putting it!)  then take you to hospital. And she did so once after my brother ate some sugar then denied it yet my mother had been watching from the window.

Their strategy worked well as my two elder siblings, Cate and Alex, and I never got time to engage in all the mischief children of our age engaged in. The disciplined they imparted has not left any of us for almost thirty years now. We did not love it then, but we do now.

VERY CARING

Apart from the discipline, my mother has been very caring. In 2000, famine hit our village hard that there was no food left for man or beast. Things got so bad, and one day there was no sign that we would eat.

My father left to go look for something to eat, some unga may be. My mother trekked many kilometers to go look for some terere. Then she came and boiled it. And we all sat around the three-stone fireplace waiting for my father, or more accurately, the unga he would hopefully be carrying.

Time flew and there was no trace of my father yet. We waited and hoped. Still no trace. Then gladly sleep overpowered us and my mother took us to bed, praying that food would come quickly. For her sleep was not something to think about at that time.

She would come and check on us after every few minutes to see if we were still alive. Probably she would even touch the chest to feel the heartbeat. Then she would go back and continue the long wait.

At around 2am, my father finally came and more importantly he had the unga. He insisted that we be woken up to eat, and my mother cooked it quickly and served us the meal. Whether it had salt or none was not something worth thinking about then.

When a hard truth needed to be said, my mother was not a wrong candidate to pick on. She would excellently deliver on the assignment. I used to be position one in primary school, and would therefore, come home laden with presents.

This one time I came home, leading with 290 marks, and with my hands full. I believed my mother would be proud of me. She saw me and on glancing at the report form, she told me eight words which I have never forgotten, “You are just a cow leading other cows!”

That was a hard one! But she was right. It helped shift my attention from the presents to the scores, and I concurred I was a cow. This provoked me to work hard and soon the cow in me diminished, hopefully.

Her story is not complete without mentioning that during my high school days, there was a time when finances were playing hard ball. My mother decided she would take me to school with a bicycle, at least to save the Sh30 I would have paid to cover the 10 km. And this she did a number of times.

Even though I would feel embarrassed and request her to drop me a kilometre to the school gate, that was an ultimate sacrifice on her part.

Now we are all grown up and she helps to run our home and small business back at home. My prayer is that God may give her and my father many years and give them good health so that they will taste the rewards of their hard work and sacrifice.

You remain the best parents we would have ever desired to have. We would not be what we are today without you. May God bless you richly.

***

Please follow the Twitter hashtag #MumstoriesKEfor more stories like this.