Letter Details
A lyrical reflection piece centered on the memory of motherly interactions, viewed through the lens of satire and societal critique expressed via metaphor. It explores diplomacy through vivid childhood imagery of child intermediaries both conveying and manipulating the messages of mothers and motherlands.
Knock Knock
Ko ko ko.
“Who’s there?”
“Chinyere? Is your mommy at home?”
“No. What is it?”
A pause.
“My mommy said that you should…”
In another dozen my-mommy moments, codified agreements would pass between daughters of daughters, now wives.
Ko ko ko.
It is the sound of diplomacy before dealing.
One mother, surreptitiously sneering at the rapidly growing bump, would smilingly receive the message of wedding fabric.
The mediator—a child at heart, a scheming adult above top—would travel to the other neighbour’s home, purposely omitting the sneer. The judgment, in the face of cold cash exchanged for the wrapper, barely veiled.
If she had good sense.
Nary a time was my-mommy-said followed by an exactitude of what the mommy said. And mommies in developing quarters, as you will grow to know, are rather colourful creatures.
Smiling at their babes and brethren one second. Snivelling and screeching the next. How much more the neighbours, then?
They got the shorter end of the stick.
Mommies with future mommies—aged sixteen or so—nested their young and found solace amongst themselves. Sometimes in squabbles over budget costs.
Key Highlights
- • Explores childhood rituals of mediation through the phrase “my mommy said” • Uses neighborhood interactions as a metaphor for diplomacy and negotiation • Reflects on the ambiguity between truth
- interpretation
- and omission • Examines social dynamics among mothers
- daughters
- and communities • Draws parallels between domestic exchanges and geopolitical behavior • Emphasizes the subtle power of half-truths versus outright lies • Blends nostalgia
- satire
- and sociocultural observation
Other times, they traded Did-you-knows like exotic merchants at trade borders. Agreements where necessary. Codicils where appropriate. Half-baked decrees. And never enough enfleshed conclusions.
The half-baked lies were, in fact, less dangerous than the half-turned truths.
These mommies I liken to motherlands across the homeland earth. Mommies of power. Or of trade and commerce. Of weaponry and guile. Of technology and hidden knowledge—all wearing a sheen of my-mommy-said: a veil of many colours. And of many textures.
Their counterparts, as well, receive. In part hearing. In part listening.
But after all is said and done—who is the mommy that said?
Are her interests truly represented? Or has the scurrying child gone and made sense of it?