Motunrayo.

Darlings, how are you all today? My genius younger sister, oyinda who is no longer a stranger to you on this blog, sent a story to my mail box. I was drawn in from the very first line. It’s simply a beautiful piece that shows the connection between a mother and her child. I just love this story and I know you will too. So enjoy reading and you can thank me in the comment box for bringing it to you. Have a fanta-bulous Saturday lovies!
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The day she was born was your greatest joy- you had indeed seen joy again. Your mind could be at peace again: at least you had given them a child although it would have been a greater testimony if it was twins or a male child you gave birth to. You loved the way she opened her eyes, like little almonds. She was beautiful, not only because she had come out from you. Her lips were pink; almost too pink for her brown skin. You could lose your pinkie in her dimples and her cheeks were so puffy.

She really grew like Jesus: in wisdom, stature and favour with God and man. Everybody loved ‘Pastress Motun’ as you all called her. She could quote a lot more scriptures than many Christians you know and she was ever so honest. She was the top of her class from nursery school through her first year of secondary school. She was so more mature than her age.

You loved the way she laughed. It always started with a slight shy smile then it would be like something blew up in her and then it would come; laughter that could even rupture your ribs. You loved the way she always tried to help you, you and your husband. You loved the way she loved you and looked at the world. ‘My Princess Motun’ you called her.

Then one day, a disaster befell. It was like a big nightmare you could not wake up from. Motun’s body was as hot as freshly made Amala. It hurt everywhere. You couldn’t even carry her without her crying. She moaned and moaned. You rushed her to the hospital and they said she had kidney failure. You didn’t understand. You couldn’t. She was fine yesterday and the day before that. She was a healthy child. You didn’t understand, neither did your husband. Then they found other things and her body repulsed any other kidney including yours though it was a match. You didn’t understand.

You prayed. Every night, ‘Eje Jesu!, Fire!, Gbo gbo Igba ati Agbara!’ It wasn’t getting any better and then a week after being in the hospital, she died. She died. She left you, her beautiful soul left you. You couldn’t look at your husband, he didn’t do anything but you couldn’t look at him. Without Motun, it would never be complete. Sweet Motun. You forgot that you were once called Mr and Mrs Akinsowon. No, you missed being called Mummy Motun and Daddy Motun. It would never be the same. He tried to touch you, maybe the closeness would come then but your body wouldn’t yield. He tried to show you love but you were disgusted. It could never be the same.

He tried, he tried but you forgot that you had a special connection before Motun was born. All that was blown away by the gale of Motun’s death. You almost killed yourself, got the knife and everything then your husband walked in. You realised that Motun wouldn’t like what you were doing; giving up on life. She would have wanted you to fight back. He ran and took the knife from you. You wept and shivered. He bathed you in hot water.

You learnt how to love again because of Motun. You discovered that you were also doing it for yourself. Soon, you accepted being called Mummy Semilore. You loved him in a whole different way. Daddy Semilore, Mummy Semilore, and Semilore. You were all happy. Motunrayo’s spirit lived on in you.

Oyindamola Depo-Oyedokun.

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4 Comments
  • abey
    September 20, 2014

    And I was touched….beautiful!

  • frances
    September 28, 2014

    Really touching…

    And I see the gift of writing runs in the family…

    • Oluwamayowa Depo Oyedokun
      September 28, 2014

      lol! I’m blushing like you just dashed me millions. Frances, I feel like you are really into my blog today and it’s making me blush. Thank you darling and I’m expecting your mail o. *straight face*

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