Yesterday, I took my niece for her annual physical. She has a dual
personality and will go from being very loud to speaking quietly all in the
same moment. The doctor was having a
hard time figuring out what she was saying as she picked this moment to really
speak quietly and on top of that decided to put her hand on her cheek. I tried
to intervene and asked her to speak up, which she did but decided to leave the
hand on her cheek. I pressed on for the hand to come down and she grittily left
it there and her stare indicated she couldn’t figure out why this was an issue.
With the doctor still in the room, I plodded on, “African people
don’t do that.” This statement was ample
enough and the hand came down. As the rest of the appointment proceeded, I mulled
over what I had just blurted out and couldn’t help but wonder how so much I was
acting like my mother, bless her.
The above incident took me back to an earlier one where another
niece, in keeping up with her times and environment had expressed she wanted to
go out with her friends. The group consisted of 16 year old girls going out for
a social event that was not only miles
away ,but also started at 8pm. The answer from both her parents was an
astounding NO and no pleading from the friends or sisters got them to cave in
to this ploy.
Yours truly, aunt dearest was called in to the rescue. After
hearing what had transpired I of course agreed with the parents that they had
made the right decision in not granting her permission to go.
As I figured out how to console my niece, I reflected back on my
own memories growing up and I couldn't help but wonder when and how we had
become like our parents; the stereotypical African parent. Below are some of the things our parents did
that had me in stitches.
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The expectations are high. You are expected to handle every task
you are given with due responsibility, from setting the table, washing dishes,
tidying up your room. Failure to deliver on any of these simple tasks, you
might as well have murdered someone.
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Whoever came up with the meme, It takes a village to raise a child
didn’t lie...
. I could never make sense of why my mum had to involve all those
near and far should I err. When I was around 13, blame it on the hormones, I
mastered the courage to talk back as she gave me some instructions on something
I didn’t agree with. The next thing I knew she was telling every relative how I
had abused her. In my young mind, I went over every word I had uttered and
couldn’t for the world of me figure out how me explaining myself had turned into verbal abuse.
Ø
Eating out is a treat. I always can’t fathom how some of my
workmates walk in daily with fast food and bill up to $300 in just coffee for
their morning boost. There was always
food at home; we didn’t have the privilege of demanding for McDonald’s or the
next food stop. As a result I have fond memories from the times we went out as
a family, being a treat; it was even the more special. And still on food,
things like soda were for special occasions and for visitors. Sometimes we
stared so hard at the visitors that they ended up pouring you some. Up to now soda
has never tasted as good to me as it did back then.
Ø You know how kids in the west run to Bank of Mum and Dad for their
luxuries, African parents are also your bank, only that they are collectors and
financial advisors that help you plan for your money. Any money from visitors
was expected to be turned over to mum and then she would start telling you how
it would best be used for your next pair of shoes or something to that tune.
Ø
Still in line with the above, it wasn’t the worst thing when good
news was shared with all the family. I remember a time, I had a good report
card from school and different relatives showered me with money tokens whenever
they met me and applauded me on a job well done.
Ø
Sarcasm was always used to get you to think on your feet. If after being coached on what you should do,
you still asked questions, a response like, put the pan on my head always woke
you up to reality and you soon figured where the pan should go and what was
needed of you.
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| Source: Onsizzle.Com |
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A friend of mine has had pressure from her parents about when she
is bringing the ‘one’ home. As we shared notes on the plight of being above 30
and single, she recalled how at the prime age when everyone was dating, her
mother assured her she would be dead if found with anyone of the opposite sex.
This same mother now won’t stop demanding and throwing hints for a spouse for
her.
Ø
Grades, you are expected to do your very best in every class. The
pressure is real and even the schools go as far as to shame those who don’t do
well in a class. In their defense it is to reward the top scorers and motivate
those at the bottom to aim higher. When
I visited the west for the first time, I encountered a student, who had to use
audio and visual aids to tackle her exams and was curious to know why. It is
then that I came across the term dyslexia a reading disability. My mind
couldn’t help but go back to a girl in my high school who easily picked up as
the teachers taught and always brought history to life as she discussed with us
and yet ironically she was always at the bottom of the class. She was not able
to sit the final national exams with us as the school felt she didn’t meet
their standards. Looking back, she must have been dyslexic, I can’t imagine
what her predicament was back at her home and hopefully her parents were more
gracious than mine with a bad report card.
Ø
When the mother calls, you must immediately comply, disobedience is
not tolerated at all. Often times you are in another room and she is calling
you to pass her something like a kitchen spoon which is within arm’s reach to
her. This used to really annoy me as I could never figure out why she just
simply couldn’t reach whatever she needed and call on someone that was a
distance away to help. Years on, a friend told me this was a tactic used to
supervise children and make sure they were not up to any trouble and could
learn a thing or two as mum worked away in the kitchen.
Ø
Fathers are mostly authoritarian, you are supposed to be the most disciplined
when dealing with them. The times you do engage with them, it is for serious
business like discussing grades and career options and if all is good, you can
throw in a request for funds. I had cousins who used to race to their rooms to
act very busy once their father returned home. A honk at the gate had everyone
sprinting off and the last man standing was warranted to be the one to open up
for their old man and answer whatever hard questions that he had. I was once
that person whose legs couldn’t carry them away fast enough and I remember
looking blank as I was quizzed
about the latest on the gulf war and Saddam in Iraq.
Ø
The only time that African parents were compelled to show some love
and pour
out a bit of emotions towards a child was on only that ‘special’
occasion when a child was ill. That is when the parent would fondly touch a child’s
forehead although the actual intention was to measure the child’s temperature
with the palm of their hand being used as a thermometer. The child would enjoy the rare opportunity of
eating delicacies like rice, chicken and occasionally have fizzy drink. It
would be the only time when one would be excused from house chores.
I could go on and on about my memories growing up. I am relieved that I am reminiscing on them
fondly which I guess goes to show that our parents in their own way were very
loving and attentive. As a matter of
fact I couldn’t trade my childhood for anything, it is a true treasure.
