Posted on May 8, 2011 - by Kambale Musavuli

A Mother’s Day Poem

Circa 1981-1982 with my mother in Kinshasa, D.R. Congo

On this day, Mother’s Day, there are so many things I can say or write about my mother. I can speak of how my mother finished her college dissertation while pregnant with me, her last child. She always shared with us how tough it was to stay focus and committed to going to college while working to support the household and making sure that my two eldest siblings were ok too, all the while being pregnant.

I can speak of how my mother raised three children by herself in Congo… the nights when she had to be a dad and mom during the military uprising in the early 90s, and during the first Rwandan-Ugandan war in the Congo in 1996. I can also speak about her commitment that she made to her children about making sure we all were in school and had food in the house no matter the financial hardship. As a child, I witnessed how our house furnitures and her Sunday’s best- clothes were sold in the market just to make sure that tuition was paid (Yes, in the Congo, education is not free and the best schools in Kinshasa have really high tuition rates).

I can’t forget how she challenged us as her children to think, read, and be able to make analysis of political situation… I still remember the Paris Match magazine she will bring home for us to read, or her spending extra hours after work to make sure our homework was done…

Yes, she instill in me the passion I have today to not only push for excellence, but to know what is wrong with the elite life and how to help people from all backgrounds… Even one year, though I was able to go to schools such as Flamboyants, Petits-Anges, and Malula in Kinshasa (some decent schools in Kinshasa), she made sure for one year, I was able to attend a school called Petits-Bois, right in Kinseso, a neighborhood that could be considered as the ghetto of the ghettoes in Kinshasa (capital city of the Congo).

What I learned going there was invaluable. I saw how less fortunate kids than me were as smart as my former classmates in other schools, yet they did not have the same type of access to materials for their studies nor did they not have the same opportunities than the most fortunate ones.

Mom, as I call her, made me who I am today… Without her, I am sure I would not be the man I am today as cliché as it may sound.

For that Mom, I thank you for enduring the 9 months… and even more years later… to make sure that I contribute positively to this earth.

This is so true to many mothers in the Congo… the mothers in the East of the Congo are always on my mind. Every day, I think about how they live. Can you imagine living in constant fear of being brutalized by armed men? For my New York friends, think about living in the state of mind you had on September 11 2001 when you did not know what was going on… and take that feeling spread over 14 years… These strong Congolese women wake up every morning with that fear of the unknown and yet walk out their front door with their head high…

Knowing their strength, I can only spend this day not just honoring my mother, but all my Congolese mothers, who, when faced with adversity, they always rise up with strength and power.

To all my Congolese mothers, thank you for all you are doing… and us your children, will make it right very soon! “Our Time Will Come!”

Here is a poem dedicated to all the mothers on this day… a poem by Camara Laye

To My Mother

Black woman, African woman, O mother, I think of you …
O Dâman, O mother,
who carried me on your back, who nursed me,
who governed by first steps,
who opened my eyes to the beauties of the world, I think of you …

Woman of the fields, woman of the rivers, woman of the great river, O
mother, I think of you …

O Dâman, O mother, who wiped my tears,
who cheered up my heart,
who patiently dealt with my caprices,
how I would love to still be near you.

Simple woman, woman of resignation, O mother, I think of you.
O Dâman, Dâman of the great family of blacksmiths, my thoughts are
always of you, they accompany me with every step,
O Dâman, my mother, how I would love to still feel your warmth,
to be your child that is close to you …
Black woman, African woman, O mother, thank you; thank you for all
that you have done for me, your son, so far away yet so close to you!

A ma mère (French)

Femme noire, femme africaine, ô toi ma mère je pense à toi…

Ô Dâman, ô ma mère, toi qui me
portas sur le dos, toi qui m’allaitas,
toi qui gouvernas mes premiers pas,
toi qui la première m’ouvris les yeux
aux prodiges de la terre, je pense à toi…

Femme des champs, femme des rivières, femme du grand fleuve,
ô toi, ma mère, je pense à toi…

Ô toi Dâman, ô ma mère, toi qui
essuyais mes larmes, toi qui me
réjouissais le coeur, toi qui,
patiemment supportais mes caprices,
comme j’aimerais encore être près de toi, être enfant près de toi…

Ô Dâman, Dâman de la grande
famille des forgerons, ma pensée
toujours se tourne vers toi, la tienne
à chaque pas m’accompagne, ô
Dâman, ma mère, comme j’aimerais
encore être dans ta chaleur, être
enfant près de toi…

Femme noire, femme africaine, ô
toi, ma mère, merci ; merci pour tout
ce que tu fis pour moi, ton fils, si
loin, si près de toi !