Mother’s Curse

“I don’t see why you don’t just go to Nigeria!”

My mouth was a bit agape as the words rang loud in my ears. This woman whom I had known for decades exclaimed something I had heard from adults years ago. “Just go back to Nigeria,” as if it were so easy.

Nigerians often look longingly at the short flights immigrants take to the Caribbean, Mexico, and Central America that quickly take them to their homelands. Africa is much further away and colonialism makes a trip double or triple the price of a voyage of a similar distance. Even though Montevideo, Uruguay is 5600 miles from me, a flight there would cost about $600 whereas it would cost $2500 to Lagos, which is 5400 miles away. It is less costly for me to visit the southern cone of South America then to go fewer miles to West Africa.

The year prior, I had bought a plane ticket to visit during spring break. The COVID-19 pandemic thwarted those those plans but thankfully I was able to receive a complete refund. I had bought the ticket, despite distant relatives being kidnapped in the past. Q almost a year after I was supposed to go to Nigeria, my aunt was kidnapped and held for ransom. I spent the night in my mother’s bed, comforting her through her grief and encouraging her to get some sleep. Thankfully, she was able to call into work the next day.

“Just go back,” they say.

I still recall one of my “aunties” on my father’s side. Auntie Lillian was technically a cousin on my father side who was 6 or 7 years older than me — making her an Auntie. Working at a nonprofit in Chicago, I balked back then at the $1500 price of a plane ticket to Lagos. She wobbled a bit on her feet as she said, “Chichi, all you have to do is just close your eyes at the cost and go. You won’t regret it!” As she said this, she closed and opened her long black lashes. It was amazing to see her charm in action as she flashed her light brown contact lenses. When she opened them, I could tell that she was not fully present.

That was when I snapped out of her hypnotic pretty privilege.

“Maybe after I pay off my credit cards.” She patted my arm and smiled as she walked away with her eyes closing a little bit too long.

I thought about adding to the credit card debt I was already trying to pay off and realized that December trips to Nigeria were not for poor college students or nonprofit workers. I just could not take advice from a druggie. That is my last memory of Auntie Lillian before she passed away from complications related to HIV. Hers was the first funeral I ever attended. Like her mother and her sister, she had children but no husband whom I had ever met. My experience in Nigeria would likely be nothing like her, at least I would hope.

One of my cousins is getting married Nigeria now. I have decided that even though I use a walker to get around and have wobbly legs due to auto immune illness, I am still going to Nigeria. When I told my mother, her first words were, “You can’t go to Nigeria. It’s too much for you.”

“What do you mean too much?”

“How will you be able to get your leg up the steps to enter buses.?”

She was referring to our family trip to Jamaica in which the buses steps were too steep for me so my brother had to help me bend my legs enough to get onto each step. This was not a problem when I went to Puerto Rico, the Bahamas, or Brazil. I like to travel differently from my brother Chidi. I prefer Ubers and taxis over commuter buses — especially with several people.

“Mummy! I’m too bougie for buses.”

And then then I remembered the Brazilian “praga de mãe.”

While it could be translated directly as “mother’s plague.” It is more like a “mother’s curse.” If she tells you to take an umbrella with you because “it’s finna rain on your head” but you look up and see a clear blue sky, you better take that umbrella! No matter the forecast, you will end up getting soaked. Indeed, the mother’s tongue has powerful properties that can shape the elements to their will. It’s why when children get a boo-boo, Mexican mothers will say “sana, sana, colita de rana.” But mothers don’t even need to speak. By simply blowing on a wound, mothers instantly make their children feel better. Personally, I believe it is a gift of God to mothers to be able to call into existence the every day annoyances that will disturb their children’s lives and make them think, “I should’ve listened to my mother!”

I was not going to play with the praga de mãe.

I reminded her (again) of this Brazil phenomenon that exists all around the world, but in different languages.

“Mommy,” I said “you have to bless my trip!”

“You’re going to go regardless of what I say,” she replied.

“No Mommy, you have to bless my trip!” I felt like Jacob on the ground wrestling with the angel and asking the angel to bless him.

“You are already blessed, my dear.”

“No!” I was becoming exasperated. “Bless my trip!”

That was when she chuckled and said, “I bless your trip, my daughter.”

“Thank you!” I replied, joining her in her laughter.

The fears of kidnapping, pandemics, and inaccessible transportation melted away and I felt like I’d been given a new name.