Mother is Supreme: Celebrating the Women Who Have Loved Me

When Okonkwo was banished from Umuofia, his only refuge was his mother’s village, Mbanta. Upon arrival, his uncle Uchendu reminded him that Nneka, a popular Igbo name, means “Mother is Supreme” and that even though one may belong to his father’s tribe, he can always find refuge with his mother’s people.

This short excerpt from the revered novel “Things Fall Apart” sums up my life so far. My mother (s) have always been my safe place. One of my earliest memories is of two aunties helping my mum out of bed and gently guiding her around the house after she gave birth to my sister. I was too young then to understand the complexities surrounding that birth, but as I grew older, my heart filled with gratitude for how they supported my mother and us through such a tough time.

Let me start by telling you about my maternal grandmother, who is no ordinary woman. After giving birth to eleven children, including a set of twins, she left an unsatisfactory marriage to raise her children on her own. But she didn’t stop there; she also raised the children of others, including those of her co-wives. She has cared for many grandchildren as well, providing food, shelter, and school fees, even though she had little herself. Growing up, I remember her always coming with a sack of food and a live chicken whenever she visited us in Kampala. My siblings and I would eagerly wait for Hoima coach to stop near our home in Nankulabye. When she got off, we would rush into her welcoming arms. She always made time for each of us, listening to us individually as we sat on her lap. We felt seen, heard, and loved. My mother used to tell us that if anything ever happened to her, we could rest assured that our grandmother would step in as our mother without hesitation. By God’s grace, we are blessed to still have both our mothers with us.

My dearest mother is the eldest daughter among her 35+ siblings, so she became a nurturer early in life. In her twenties, she and her sisters braved the treacherous roads to Kampala in the late 1980s, searching for a better life. There, she met my father, and the rest is history. My mum made the courageous decision to stay at home to raise us—not only because of sexual harassment at her workplace but also due to the sudden death of my brother, who used to follow me. She wanted to give my siblings and me the stability she never received growing up in a broken home. Yet, she always found ways to make side income—cooking lunches for offices, finishing graduation gowns, and making stuffed animals to sell. Thanks to her hard work, I always had “pocket money” while in high school. Though she was the stricter parent, my siblings and I knew she would move mountains for us. In 2022, she left her budding businesses amid COVID-19 to come and be with me in Japan when I welcomed my son. She could have chosen not to come, and I would have understood, but she insisted that she couldn’t let me start this new chapter alone. She was truly the gift we didn’t know we needed at that time.

The bond I share with my aunt, Mama Ndagi—as we affectionately call her—goes beyond the typical aunt-niece relationship; we are very good friends. While my mum is the second born, Mama Ndagire is the fourth, and a sister separates them in age. She lived in Wandegeya with her family, and I would often walk to their home over the weekends to spend time with her and my sisters, Ndagire and Nassuna. We talked and laughed about everything, including my primary school crushes, because she was never judgmental. Afterwards, she would walk me halfway home to Nankulabye. When my cousin Ndagire started Primary Three (P3), she would stay at school until evening, and my aunt would walk from Wandegeya to bring her lunch every school day. At the time, I was in Primary Five (P5), in a different school block, but my aunt would search for me among the 3,000 children to give me food, even though we had school-provided meals. This stands out as my most cherished memory of her. When misfortune befell their family in the late 2000s and others turned away, I, still a student and powerless to help financially, would visit them in Gayaza just to check in. When I got older, I pushed for my maternal side to find ways to support them. One day, my mum asked why I was trying so hard to revive a dire situation, I told her that despite everything, I still saw the woman who never judged me, who laughed with me at almost everything, who brought me food in primary school, and who always walked me home. There was no way I could ever abandon her or her family.

Mama Businge is the unsung heroine among my maternal relatives. Her life has been dedicated to serving her mother, sisters, and the community. Everyone you meet will say Aunt Kakyo has come through for them whenever they needed help—whether taking over a shop when a clerk suddenly quits, looking after children so a mother can work, caring for sick family members, or helping with the harvest when laborers are scarce. She has children of her own, all adults now, but she’s also played “deputy mother” to her youngest sister, who has eight children. I always marvel at her selfless service and dedication to others. My deepest memory of her is from when I started boarding school in Senior One and she gifted me a basin. It may seem small to some, but it meant everything to me, because I knew she sacrificed something of her own to buy me that green basin—which has weathered many seasons and is still in use at my parents’ home. Most recently, she cared for my parents’ home while my mum came to Japan for my son’s delivery in 2022. When asked, she simply told my mum, “We can’t let her be alone at a time like this. I would have wanted to be there with her, but staying home is my way to support her.” And that was not all—when news reached her that labor had stalled, she called my Aunt Kanyunyuzi, and together they rallied their friends to pray for me, they didn't stop until they heard I had safely delivered. When I learned about this, I was overcome with emotion, and I cried so hard. In a world where hidden motives seem to lurk everywhere, I am blessed to know such love without expectation. Indeed, nothing lasts more than a mother’s love.

Today, I celebrate these remarkable women who have taught me a lot about family, loyalty, hard work, and service to others. Life doesn’t come with a manual—it comes with a mother. To all the biological mothers, mothers by choice, mothers through service or leadership, and spiritual mothers: We see you, we appreciate you, and we wish you nothing but love. May you never lack.

I would love to hear your stories about the women who have mothered you—how they did it, your fondest memories, and the lessons you learned. Let’s share and shine a light on the women who give so generously, every day.