As the middle child—often unnoticed and forgotten—the story I share today is that of my dearest mother. I wish I could tell you a tale of glory, adventure, and a happily-ever-after. Instead, it is a story of sacrifice, resilience, endurance, and selfless love—a story of a mother who endured for the love of her children.
To understand my mother—her strength and her struggles—you must go back to her childhood. She was one of two children born to her mother, a royal from the Mbin Forchu Palace. For a while, she knew happiness. Her father, a humble farmer, defied tradition and sacrificed what little he had to ensure my mother received an education. She was bright, inquisitive, and hardworking. But when her father passed away early, her story of rejection began.
My grandmother, her mother, had a favorite child—my aunt—whom she loved more was no secret; her choice was clear. So my mother found love and comfort in the arms of her grandmother—the woman whose name I proudly bear.
My earliest memory of my mother was on a rainy day in Bamenda. Oblivious to the world, I was bundled off to a nearby hospital. When we arrived, I saw my mother sitting upright in bed, looking grateful—happy to have survived a challenging event. Beside her was a small cradle with a tiny baby wrapped in pink woollen clothes. I thought it was a little girl, but it turned out to be my beloved younger brother, Njuks.
As I grew, I often found my mother in the midst of life’s challenges. I remember visiting her at the University of Nchang after she had been away for some time. Back then, our home was full of aunties and cousins, so with a full belly, I could play for days. When we arrived at the university, I was struck by how clean her room was—and overjoyed to see her. She gave me cabin biscuits, and true to form, she graduated. In those days, graduating from Nchang was no small feat. Whether it was poor teaching standards, tough exams, or sheer determination, my mother was among the few who completed their studies.
After graduation, she was assigned to the Agricultural Office behind Foncha Street, heading towards Bambili. By then, I was about eight years old, and my memories were clearer. She was excited about her work, encouraging farmers to plant red corn instead of white, saying it was healthier and less starchy (today I know she meant fewer carbs!). She was passionate about healthy living. I recall our first farming season vividly. My elder brothers Zi and Ndeza and I helped with tilling. I hated the cuts from elephant grass but was curious about the harvest. That year, we produced so much corn that my father allowed his car to be used to transport it. He made so many trips that by the end, the corn was piled so high you could climb it and step onto the roof of our house.
Those were simpler days. But feeding our household was no easy task. We had countless cousins and aunties living with us, and the pressure on her was immense. There were tensions and moments best forgotten. Yet through it all, she remained selfless and enduring—though she found it hard to let go when hurt. I grew up listening quietly as she recounted the pains and abuses she suffered at the hands of relatives. From those moments, I learned an invaluable skill: finding light in dark clouds. When she was deep in sorrow, I would crack a joke to lift her spirit, and soon we’d both be laughing—though I knew the dance would repeat.
She was industrious, teaching me humility and hard work. She tried her hand at everything—from selling Alaska (sweet frozen treats) to soap, firewood, chickens—but her true passion was animal farming. As I came of age, I became the de facto pig keeper, and strangely enough, I was exceptionally good at it. To this day, caring for animals brings me peace. Mum was happiest when we talked about the progress of the animals, and we shared the pain when some fell ill. Despite financial struggles, she always managed to find 100 or 500 francs CFA for taxi fare or whatever a teenager needed.
We were equally adventurous when we lived in Mbengwi. By then, our household had shrunk—my elder siblings Zi and Atem were in secondary school in Bamenda—leaving just me, Njuks, and Eme at home. We had goats, rabbits, and farm work to contend with. We experimented with soap-making and made long journeys to Mbon Market and Ngembo village, advising farmers on the latest techniques. She was fascinated by disease-resistant crops, and I learned enough to advise farmers myself. I recall one morning harvesting honey from hives she had set up at the edge of the college campus. I was her closest ally, tasked with smoking the bees. We had harvested three hives when sunrise came—and the bees launched a counterattack! We ran, but some bees got tangled in her hair. Despite the stings, I was determined to get them out, dusting them off her head. When we finally got home, we burst out laughing through the pain.
Years later, I left home after university, moving to Britain. After 10–15 years of civil service, Mum received her bonus—about 1.8 million francs CFA. She gave me 1.5 million to process my travel documents. That sacrifice changed my life. In the years that followed, there were ups and downs, and my sister Eme became her confidant. I am eternally grateful to her for that. The last two years have been especially heartbreaking, with Mum suffering a seizure. On 12 December, at 10:40 BST, my dear mother took her last breath.
Through my mother, I learned that only one person will truly love you—and that is you. And that peace in life depends largely on your ability to forgive and let go. Forgiveness takes strength—vengeance is easy. You forgive for yourself and for others—not out of weakness, but as a reflection of strength. I also learned humility, hard work, and resilience. I am now tasked with looking after her grandchildren and our family. Mother, I know you continue to watch over us. May you rest in peace, knowing you were loved—even if you sometimes thought otherwise. You were the best mother I could have asked for.