By Francis Ewherido
Last Thursday, September 4, 2025, was my mother, Mrs. Paulinan Powder Ewherido’s 92nd birthday. After her 90th birthday, I decided that I will do no more tributes. I was happy that she was well celebrated, which gave her a foretaste of what her burial will look like. There’s no doubt that she was happy with the celebration of her 90th birthday. The other reason I decided that I will not do tributes again was that so many people have died since then, some of them very close to her. The closest person in age was Mrs. Theresa Otaighata, 90, her friend who was more of a sister for 59 years. Sometimes, I get scared of going to Facebook because of the number of younger people dying, some in their 30s. I just felt uncomfortable celebrating my 92-year-old mother.
But I had a change of mind due to some reasons. One, my mother has had own share of bereavements. She lost her second child and only daughter in 1960, on her third birthday. Then my father followed in 1988, her sons, Pius and Aloysius in 2013 and 2015, respectively. That’s her immediate family. Stretching to the extended family and friends will make the list very long. She has suffered pain too.
Two, after her 90th birthday celebration on…, she went to church for midday Mass in January 2024. After her usual banter with her parishioners who see her as a mother, she went to her usual seat. After sitting down, she noticed everywhere was dark. She blinked, but that was it. She’s gone blind. Someone who went to church on her own was escorted home holding her hand. And mama Powder hates being held on her hand. She would jokingly ask you, did I ask for your assistance. She also refused to use a walking stick or aid. Even now, she walks around her house unassisted. We only advised the people with her to ensure that chairs, stools and other items stay in the same position they were before she went blind. The dangers of predestination also hit me hard. Her 90th birthday celebration was moved to December 21 so that all her children and as many grandchildren could be part of the celebration. Any long delay could have led to cancellation because why celebrate someone who can’t see and appreciate what is happening. The difference with a burial is that the person istill alive.
When the news got to us, we knew the enormity. One by one, all my siblings started going to see her, starting from those in Delta, then those of us in Nigeria, but outside Delta and finally those in Diaspora. When I went to see her, she told me, “my son, this blow is below the belt.” I concurred. I didn’t want to paper over a cracked wall. I didn’t need to read any book to know the enormity. I closed my eyes, the darkness and helplessness drove the message home. When I shared a meal with her, flies were trying to perch on the food. She was oblivious. When she was sighted, she could thrown the food away. It was something she resented.
These days, the blindness has become my way of joking with her: I went home and went to visit her. She held my outstretched arms without groping. “Mama, are you really sure you are blind or you are pretending?” She laughed and responded: “Orienda r’Emokpor (my fathers Quarters in Ewhu, my hometown), wo be rhere (You wizard from Emokpor, you have come again o).” Another time, she had a video call with one of my brothers and his family. When I called her, she was excited that she “saw” and spoke with her grandchildren. “Mama, mavo woruvwomraye? Wo rhu’aro (Mama, how did you see them? You are blind now).” Ugogo, megatewero (Ugogo – that’s the pet name she calls me-, I am not as strong as you are).
Now, I call her more regularly, something I learnt from my mother-in-law, Mrs. Beatrice Umode. Mama’s been having problems eating. Nothing seems to be appeal to her. So, each time I call her, I always ask her if she has eaten. Recently, I called at 1pm and asked if she has eaten. She said no because the only thing she really wants to eat now is garri soaked in water. I asked what was stopping her from eating “soaked garri. She said she was stopped when her eyesight was deteriorating. I reminded her, “Urhobo tare n’omo di whu, oyoromo k’okpo. Ibiaro na rhure. Biko riobo ro jevwe (Mama, the Urhobos say that, when a child dies, the nanny’s stay becomes superflous. You are now blind. There are no eyes to protect anymore. Eat whatever you like. Where’s a person on the ground falling to again?).” “Oshomuwe (I wonder), she answered” and we both roared into laughter.
I narrated the encounter to my youngest daughter, and she was of the same opinion: “Daddy, that’s what I also wanted to say. “Why abstain from eating “soaked garri” when she’s already blind?” The irony is that Mama Powder continued eating eba and whatever caught her fancy, especially, Owho, irhibotor, irhibor’erhare and ogbono soups. She was born and grew up in Omoko ( in present day Rivers State). She lived with Igbos and still understands and speaks a little bit of Igbo 79 years after they left Omoku sequel to her father’s death in 1946. That was where her love for ogbono soup started.
Today, I just want to celebrate a woman who brought me into this world. Beyond that I was her handbag until I was about five. Then my father’s relative would jokingly tell me “to keep on eye on her.” My mother would laugh and laugh. I didn’t understand what it was all about. I was just happy to be with her. I celebrate a woman who stood by father and gave their children the best within their ability. I celebrate a virtuous woman. I celebrate a woman who stood firmly by her husband until May 31, 1988, when he breathed his last. I celebrate a woman who brought me up with native intelligence, wisdom, proverbs and wise sayings. I celebrate one of the most intelligent women I know whose education was truncated in Standard four by the death of her father. I celebrate my emeritus professor who never saw the four walls of a secondary school, not to talk of a university. Nevertheless, she fought to ensure her children got good education. The only altercation I ever witnessed in their 34 marriage was when she blamed my father for prioritising his students over his biological children. The inspector of education was coming to my father’s school and it was inconceivable for the principal was to receive him to be absent. By the time my father got to the University of Benin the next day, it was late. It hurt terribly because my brother and I scored over 270 in the JAMB exam, but lost the admission due to technical reason and another reason we have put behind us. It hurt. My mother blamed my father, but I knew that my father could not have been absent when his inspector was coming to the school.
Mama, happy 92nd birthday. I will continue to love and cherish you. My love for you remains endless. Forget our “fights” and “quarrels.” They are inevitable because an apple never falls far from the mother tree.
