Random Musings: Happy Mother’s Day to the Unsung and Uncelebrated mothers….

A Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers who feel voiceless, dreamless, faceless, nameless…

As we joyfully celebrate mothers around the world on this wonderful Mother’s Day, let us also honour the weeping mothers who came before us, victims the Biafra-Nigeria civil war and those who are also presently with us, victims of Boko Haram’s onslaught, mothers who hunger for bread, shelter, security and peace, the ones who were forced into motherhood.

And also, remember the mothers who are still children themselves, yet bearing other children, mothers of physically and mentally challenged children who constantly stand in the gap for their seeds, mothers who are constantly fed the lies that they are unworthy and unlovable…

We remember all mothers who sacrifice and stoically bear deep shame and pain at the promise of a better life for their children and mothers who are sad victims of horrific abuse, violence, war, kidnapping and terrorism. We extend a special prayer and cyber hug to the mothers who get fists instead of gifts, those unique mothers who get bouquet of bullets instead of glorious flowers, the weeping and wailing mothers who wait for their lost children, the unsung, unknown, unheard, uncelebrated mothers…

May the sweet, soothing and loving divine mercy of God’s grace gift you all with an internal joy, peace and comfort that defy all human understanding. We love, cherish, celebrate and honour you on this very special Mother’s Day. On behalf of Whole Woman Network team, I offer a toast; a wonderful, heartfelt salute to ALL mothers!

Love, Light & Healing

-Juliet ‘Kego Ume-Onyido

~#ThePowerofWrittenSpokenWords2TransformLives~

 

 

Refugee Mother and Child (A poem by Chinua Achebe)

Biafran Mothers

No Madonna and Child could touch
that picture of a mother’s tenderness
for a son she soon would have to forget.
The air was heavy with odours

of diarrhoea of unwashed children
with washed-out ribs and dried-up
bottoms struggling in laboured
steps behind blown empty bellies.

mothers there had long ceased
to care but not this one; she held
a ghost smile between her teeth
and in her eyes the ghost of a mother’s
pride as she combed the rust-coloured
hair left on his skull and then –

singing in her eyes – began carefully
to part it… In another life this
would have been a little daily
act of no consequence before his
breakfast and school; now she

did it like putting flowers
on a tiny grave.

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