I was used to my missionary parents’ stoicism. Then I saw my mother being vulnerable.
I rolled in bed to turn to my aunt. I had slept much longer than I anticipated and by the time I opened my eyes the sun was already up. I squinted at the glare as I watched my aunt read her bible with such ease on her face. She adjusted her glasses and then proceeded to remove her covers and walk out of the room.
My aunt had been a widow for as long as I have known her and both her children, my cousins, now fully grown, were out of the house. Although she had multiple rooms in the house, she preferred the one which we shared, crowded with multiple bags of clothes and littered with cassette player, CD Walkman, and other obsolete electronics. I had come to visit her on my trip back home after a decade of being away. Lagos Island only covers a small surface area. However, it had taken five hours to get to her estate due to traffic but I was adamant to make the trip as I had missed my family members and had nearly forgotten what they looked like.
She returned to the room with a cup of water and sat back in my bed, underneath the covers yet again, to my surprise. I was used to my parents stepping out of bed once and for all—with the only return expected at the end of a long and packed day. But she sat and looked at me as I mumbled, “Good morning.” We spoke casually about security in her area, house renovations and possible ways to capitalize on her home now that she had it all to herself. We seemed to naturally move from topic to topic. I enjoyed her pragmatic view of living and she seemed to enjoy my questions. We paused for a while and I knew I had to somehow introduce the topic which I had determined to discuss with her long before I embarked on my journey.
“You’ve obviously heard about my parents and how they have been struggling to get along …” I hesitated as I considered how to continue without putting my parents, whom I loved dearly, in a bad light. Her eyes gave away her shock.
“They are not getting along?” my aunt asked, brows furrowed.
I was not sure how to answer as I was so certain the entire extended family had heard to some extent that my parents were experiencing rifts in their marital harmony and the ever-present friction was such a reality to me that I never considered that other people did not view my parents that way.
My aunt relaxed a bit after her initial reaction as I explained to her that my siblings and I had witnessed my parents over the past several years grow increasingly at odds with one another. I struggled through the words, and she just shook her head with a smile.
“Let me tell you something I have learned, a human will always need to be fully human. And when it does not get the chance, it will demand it.”
She began to describe to me the very first time she met my parents and that they had explained to her their desire to go to an unknown village in the North of Nigeria with no idea of the language nor full grasp of the conditions there. She recounted how they brimmed with excitement and although most of their family members opposed the move, their minds were set and they made it anyway. She had always seen them as a very inspirational couple. However, she sometimes considered if in all their sacrifices, they had really known themselves. This made me think for the first time about my parents at my age. Knowing what I know now about being in my twenties, I wondered if they were afraid to try new things? Did they find themselves constantly working to their last ounce of energy with very slow results? Did they stare at each other at a loss with their first daughter, my sister? Did they enjoy certain types of fashion or music? I have always known my parents to breeze over their personal stories to focus on stories of God’s Gospel and the mission work at hand.
My mother spoke softly and told me that she had a very difficult undergraduate experience—a completely different story than the one I had always heard growing up.
Recently, I joined my mother at her academic graduation and she was emotional. Although I had only seen my mother cry thrice in my life before this (two of these being due to the death of her loved ones), the tears welled up in her eyes and I realized how much this moment really meant to her. My mother spoke softly and told me that she had a very difficult undergraduate experience—a completely different story than the one I had always heard growing up. In the past, my mother would boast about her academic prowess and how young she had been when she started her tertiary education, whenever we fell short of her expectations for our intelligence. But now, she appeared unguarded and I could almost see the university student as she spoke, facing many challenges, struggling to put in her best efforts to succeed. I did not feel bad for her, I just wanted to know her more and observed that she seemed so much happier as this person. My mother quickly wiped the tears away and I could not find the words to urge her to go on. I myself had gotten so used to her stoicism that I felt uncomfortable with her vulnerability.
On the drive back home from the graduation, I reflected on my aunt’s words about the need for us all to breathe and discover ourselves and I wondered just how much of my parents I really knew. And how much of myself I had learnt to put aside in a bid to do what I believed needed to be done.