My name is Kenechi, and at the tender age of 25, I found myself a widow, left with only one treasure in this world: my beloved daughter, Oluchi. Life had not shown me kindness, but my daughter became my beacon of hope and strength. Every day, I carried her on my back, balancing a tray of oranges on my head, and walked under the scorching sun, shouting, “Sweet oranges! Buy sweet oranges!”
Those days were not easy. I faced ridicule from men who mocked my efforts and criticism from women who looked down on my worn sandals and faded cloth. Yet, in the face of such adversity, I would remind myself, “It doesn’t matter. One day, my daughter will wear shoes that I never had.” This mantra became my motivation, fueling my determination to provide a better future for Oluchi.
Oluchi was a bright child, excelling in her studies year after year. She consistently ranked at the top of her class, and whenever her teachers praised her, I would watch proudly from the classroom window, a smile on my face despite the sweat soaking my clothes from a long day at the market. Her achievements filled my heart with joy and made every sacrifice worthwhile.
When Oluchi received her acceptance letter to university, I knew I had to do everything in my power to support her dreams. I sold everything I owned: my late husband’s bicycle, my only jewelry, and even the cloth I used to cover myself. People laughed at me, but I stood firm, declaring, “Let them laugh. My daughter must study.” My resolve was unshakeable; I would do whatever it took to ensure she had the education she deserved.
Years passed, and Oluchi graduated with honors. She landed a job in the city, dressed in fine clothes, and lived in a house with tiled floors. Although she rarely called, each time she did, I reminded her, “My daughter, remember the God who lifted you up with my sweat.” I wanted her to understand the sacrifices made for her success, the love that fueled my every effort.
The day of her wedding finally arrived. I donned my best attire, which was merely an old piece of cloth, washed so many times that it had lost its color. I tied my old scarf around my head and held my Bible tightly in my hands, feeling both pride and anxiety as I prepared to witness my daughter’s special day.
As I entered the reception hall, I felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze upon me—some curious, others judgmental. I smiled with pride as I saw Oluchi in her stunning white dress, glowing with happiness. However, when I attempted to approach her, a usher stopped me. “I am the mother of the bride,” I said softly.
The usher went to inform Oluchi. When she looked at me, her expression changed, and she shook her head. In a loud voice, she declared, “My mother died a long time ago. I don’t know that woman.”
A deafening silence fell over the room. My ears rang, and my knees buckled beneath me. The crowd began to murmur, and I was ushered outside, whispers floating around me: “Perhaps she’s ashamed because her mother is poor.”
Sitting on the ground, tears soaked my cloth as I listened to the music and laughter inside—the laughter of my daughter as she danced with her husband. The day I had hoped would honor my sacrifices turned into a moment of public humiliation
.
Now, I live in quiet solitude in the village, surrounded by memories of a life filled with love and sacrifice. Neighbors occasionally ask, “Is it true that your daughter denied you?” I can only muster a weak smile in response. Yet, despite everything, I continue to pray for her. No matter what she did, she remains the little girl I carried on my back under the blazing sun.
To all children, never be ashamed of the hands that fed you, even if they are rough and scarred. A mother’s tears may fall in silence, but heaven records every drop. The sacrifices of a parent are often unrecognized, but they are the foundation upon which futures are built. As I reflect on my journey, I hope that one day Oluchi will remember the love that guided her path and the sacrifices made to ensure she could reach her dreams.
