Mother Tongue
There is a conversation that happens between mothers and daughters,
where one woman’s past meets another’s becoming.
In these moments, voices carry more than words.
They carry expectations, sacrifices, and quiet revolutions.
On a warm Thursday afternoon somewhere in suburban Maryland, Kemi sat across from her mother. Sunlight spilled between them, resting gently on an untouched table. The air was thick with everything neither of them had yet said.
“Kemi, what do you mean you’re not sure you want to be a fashion designer anymore?” her mother asked, raising an eyebrow. “When you came to your father and me eight years ago, saying you wanted to leave architecture and go to Paris, do you know how many nights I had to beg your father to agree?”
Kemi frowned. “But Mum, you didn’t act like it was a big deal then. Why bring it up now?”
Her mother sighed, the weight of memory settling into her voice.
“Why now? Because I believed in you. You left a good career, went to Paris, got married, moved here… all for this dream. I even thought, finally, I can stop wasting money on tailors who cannot sew a proper iro and buba.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“But where is the brand, Kemi? You’ve not launched anything. The daughter you said you needed time to raise is already in primary school. So tell me, what is stopping you now? If you don’t have work to show for it, then have another child.”
Kemi shifted in her seat, something tightening in her chest.
“Mum… I can’t believe you’re saying this. Don’t you remember what it was like for you? I lost myself after having Celine. I almost died, Mum. For years, I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
Her voice softened, but did not break.
“At least you had Grandma. You had help. I’m raising Celine here, largely on my own. And just because I don’t give you a daily report doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing. I’ve been creating. I’ve been rebuilding. You may not call it a career, but it matters.”
Her mother scoffed lightly.
“Look at you. Were there not four of you? You children of these days always have something to complain about - ‘finding yourself,’ ‘self-care’... nonsense! If you had a proper job instead of this designing and creating you claim to be doing, or even another baby, you wouldn’t have so much time to be lost. See your sister Gbemi, two boys and a girl, and she’s managing well.”
Kemi exhaled slowly.
“Mum… she goes by Joan now. And she’s managing because her husband shows up. He cooks, he bathes the children, he does the night shifts. That’s why she can handle three!”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked sharply.
“Is it not James who pays for this house? The car you’re driving? Last month when you said you went on a solo vacation to clear your head, who paid for it? Oh, so you’re trying to emulate your friends now, eh? I hope you’re not trying to be like that Jessica, gallivanting around with one child… or that one who is always hosting women’s programs…”
Kemi blinked. “Do you mean Udochi? The Special Adviser on Women’s Health?”
“Exactly!” her mother replied. “That one. Is she not the one who says she doesn’t want children? How can a woman not want children unless something is wrong with her?”
Kemi inhaled deeply, choosing her words with care.
“Mum, Udochi is a medical doctor. She has enough insight into how deeply childbirth changes a woman’s body and enough self-awareness to know she doesn’t want that for herself. Her husband also doesn’t want children, and they’re happy together.”
Her mother clicked her tongue.
“Ehn, ki lo so? What did you just say? O ma se o!” Her mother’s voice rose. “Her mother must be weeping where she is. Do you know how much pain your cousin Shade is causing her mother? Forty-two and still not married! Yet she’s busy buying houses all over Nigeria. What is an unmarried woman doing with a duplex, ni t’ori Olorun?”
Her voice grew firmer, anchored in conviction.
“You girls of nowadays do not understand what it means to be a woman. You must sacrifice for your husband, for your children. It is the woman that holds the home! Do you know the sacrifices I made so your father could succeed in his career? Do you not remember that it was just me and you children in Lagos while he was in London for ten years? If I had been doing all this ‘self-care’ nonsense you people talk about, would you be where you are today?”
Kemi’s voice cracked but steadied as she spoke.
“No, Mum, and I mean no disrespect, but there is so much buried anger in women of your generation. Anger from giving up your dreams so men could live theirs.”
She held her mother’s gaze.
“We are trying to change that. My generation refuses to inherit silence. We’ve seen what happens when women shrink themselves to fit into what the world expects – dreams dry up, bitterness grows. Every woman has the right to choose her body, her life, her path. Being unmarried or child-free does not make her incomplete. It makes her honest.”
She paused, then continued more quietly.
“Yes, we celebrate women who thrive in motherhood and marriages; they are powerful too. But power should come from choice, not pressure. For the first time, women are creating spaces where we can breathe, lead, fail and rise without apology. We are learning that you can’t pour from an empty cup, and that rest, joy and boundaries are not rebellion, they are survival.”
Her voice softened, but her resolve did not.
“And as for me… becoming who I want to be – not who you, Dad, or even James expect – doesn’t make me a failure. I would rather wake up in ten years knowing I chose myself than spend a lifetime living for everyone else.”
Her mother looked away, blinking quickly. The waiter approached, hesitant, menus in hand.
“Mo ti gbo, o, Kemi, I’ve heard you,” she said quietly. “May God spare our lives till then.”
Kemi smiled faintly.
“Yes, Mum. Happy Mother’s Day. Can we order now?”
Her mother nodded, glancing down at the menu.
“Yes… do they have spaghetti here?”
As they placed their orders, silence settled between them – soft, but not empty.
Outside, laughter drifted in from the patio, a reminder that the world was still turning, still being rewritten by women who dared to choose differently.
Kemi glanced at her mother then, really looked at her, the lines etched by years of carrying, enduring, becoming. And for a brief moment, she saw beyond the resistance. She saw a woman shaped by her time. A woman who had carried more than she ever named.
Across the table, her mother sighed, reaching for her glass.
“You children,” she murmured, half in exasperation, half in wonder.
Kemi’s smile was quiet, but sure.
“We’re just learning to carry it differently, Mum.”
And when the waiter returned, he broke the silence, but not the love that still lingered between them.
Until next time,
Still becoming. Still being.
