Let’s get this out of the way. My mother will go to heaven.
And this is why.
My mother from the day she was born and baptized in the murkiness of the local river has lived her earthly life doing good for the Big Guy Upstairs and sacrificing for Him. Quite frankly, I don’t see the reason why the Big Guy Upstairs wouldn’t reward her with an invitation to heaven, someday when she’s finally done working for Him.
In heaven, I am sure my mother will while her time away dressed in a classy, stylish and elegant white robe, while being serenaded by an orchestra of Koffi Olomide-like angels as she enjoys an endless flow of fortified holy wine.
Or depending with your version of the Good Book: she will be rewarded by her own 24-bedroom mansion that comes fully customized with Dstv premium package, tons of angels at her service, a shoe shopping mall, Jacuzzi, a wine bar and a 68-seater personalized Cineplex.
Being my mother, that super-friendly, kind-hearted extended version of Mother Tereasa, she will immediately befriend her neighbours, who I believe will be Mary Magdalene, and the soulful Whitney Houston.
Thanks to my mother’s earthly experience, networking and mobilization skills, the three wonderful ladies will form a chama (merry-go-round group) that will include the likes of Mother Teresa, Sarah – Abraham’s wife, Princess Diana and Joan Rivers.
The chama’s ultimate goal will be tending the Garden of Eden, anointing the feet of JC with oil once a week, conducting orientation classes for new souls in heaven, and most importantly, praying for lost souls like her younger brother, Mmasi who is still hooked in sin on earth.
But that’s to come.
For now though, my heaven-bound, spirit-filled, devil-nonsense and Scripture-spitting mother is still trapped on earth busy preaching the Gospel to lost souls in the village, while harassing her elder brother to look for a job at the local tea factory.
By all standards, my mother is a great woman in her own right. She is the kind who does no evil, hears no evil, but sees all evil. And that’s why even if I wanted, I would never blame her for slapping my siblings and I with obesity when we were growing up. This was thanks to the incredible mixture of carbohydrates and protein in the name of soggy beans and cassava she constantly fed us on.
In any case, our rocky land’s ability to religiously produce beans and cassava in all seasons was the closest she ever came to a nutrition class. The flip side of these though was the fact that my humourless, born-again Christian fundamentalist mother would randomly speak in tongues, quote the Old Testament and curse the devil every time I passed air. Of course, she conveniently forgot that my young, tender Kwashiorkor stomach was only reacting to her monotonous African cuisine of beans and cassava.
But that was then.
Now I don’t need to worry about soggy carbohydrates, though I have a new headache. My mother wants me to pop out grandchildren for her, like yesterday.
Ever since I walked Missus down the aisle a couple of moons ago, my mother has never stopped reminding me that I need to squeeze a few grandchildren out of Missus’ loins before the Good Lord calls her home.
“Don’t bother about how you will take care of the many children, you know the Lord always provides,” she would say thoughtfully, while starring at her tattered, dusty Bible.
For a while, I would cunningly change the topic of me broadcasting my wild oats and facilitating little rascals into the world of sin by talking about her garden.
Ooh! her garden. It’s her pride, joy and earthly achievement. The money, which she milks out of my already squeezed pay slip every month, is consistently invested in planting all kinds of indigenous and exotic herbs and species of vegetables and fruits. To completely change the topic about paging Missus, while talking about her garden, I would throw in a promise of getting CNN to feature her garden on Inside Africa.
Well, my craftiness worked for a while but then she become wiser.
“I don’t need to be on Tv, my name is already in the Book of Life,” she would angrily fire back.
So, late last year, I decided to grant her wish and prayer, well, somehow. I took Missus to the village to meet her, and we neither confirmed nor denied Missus’ apparent ‘healthy’ look (read increase in weight). I guess due to my mother’s fertile imagination and Abrahamic faith, she simply concluded Missus was pregnant.
She was so overjoyed, she profusely spoke in tongues for 18 minutes, sang six songs back to back from her beloved Golden Bells hymn book, and she prayed for almost an hour. Her prayer as usual was punctuated by angry curses, swearing and rebukes hurled at the devil with his little foolish demons.
In the prayer, she blessed Missus’ womb, which according to her was created even before the foundation of the earth to carry the bloodline of the Waudo lineage. To perhaps ensure that the Big Guy Upstairs gave her prayer priority, she had shouted her lungs out, stamped her feet on the ground eleven times and clapped severally with curses of ‘riswa’ feeling the room.
After the long-unwinding prayers, my mother couldn’t get enough of Missus. For a moment, I began guessing that perhaps she wanted to squeeze some chama money from Missus. Or maybe she wanted to release her usual John 3:16 fiery sulphuric acid televangelist-like sermons on Missus poor soul. But whatever it was, she seemed to be completely smitten by Missus. At some point, I even saw them giving each other a ‘high-five’.
Interestingly, it took 38 minutes of meeting Missus for my mother to spiritually conclude that the Spirit was telling her that we need to bless our first unborn child with a Pentecostal church dedication service as soon as possible.
It’s been over a month since my mother met Missus. I am told she has already reserved names for my seven children. As for Missus, she is slowly understanding the magnitude of what it means being married to the Waudo clan.
I have a strong feeling, this year my life is about to get complicated. My old man tells me, my mother is planning to relocate to the City to ensure that Missus delivers naturally, and not through Kiserian section, as she puts it.