Mother: A Portraiture...

“Your turn,” she says to me, after deftly moving her counters into position on the ludo board. That’s my mother playing her favourite board game with her favourite son - me. Not that she has much of a choice, being I am the only male of six children. Nevertheless, that fact scarcely bothers her when she sees her chance to move in for the kill. Her entire persona is obvious just by watching her then, swirling the dice with deliberate care and cunning, her lucent brown eyes catching mine mischievously whenever I look away from the boards to the cup between her tapered fingers morosely. “Nfam-eee,” she cries mockingly to invoke the caprice of the gods in her favour, then slams the cup upside down with authority. A wry smile creases her face as she lifts the receptacle to reveal the dice declaring a lucky 6-5. Hardly surprising. My mother has always been lucky, surviving 3 gruesome years as a field nurse in the Biafran jungle when her guardian uncle was separated from her during the Nigerian Civil War. Usually, I should be smiling back, but at 7 down, I’m a sore loser, and a frown still frames my face. “Are you hungry?” her voice piquant with concern. Already she’s on her feet and sprightly stepping toward the kitchen, her gait unaffected by her 60-odd years on planet earth “I’m fine,” I hasten to assure her, laughing a little. It takes some convincing, but soon she resumes her seat at the table, and I brace myself to suffer certain defeat yet again by this caring, cunning, uncomplicated woman…