THE APPLE DOES NOT FALL FAR FROM THE TREE.

I’m sure you’ve heard it before? Heard that some spend the entirety of their lives trying not to be like their parents only to end up exactly like them in the most unhelpful ways. Some realise this while others do not. For me, it becomes more and more pronounced each passing day. It doesn’t bother me though, not the way it used to.

Contrary to popular opinion, there is beauty in the madness/chaos. Most of the time, we are completely blind to it. Before I go any further, I feel a backstory is necessary.

My relationship with my mother was complicated.

Complicated: a word used to describe a thing that is describable but not pleasing/comfortable to get into for one reason or another.

Our relationship was strained and painful. It was not ideal to say the least! I did not bother to hide it until the day she broke down in tears right in front of me, because of me. I was not returning (and refused to return) the energy that she had been putting into us. She had been trying to change our dynamic for about a year and a few months before her death. She wanted us to be a “real family". She made her intention for us very clear to me. Me? I felt numb to it. If I did feel anything other than apathy, it was jadedness, disappointment and anger. A great (repressed) anger! There was love, but what’s love but a second-hand emotion. Just ask Tina!

We had been through something similar before where she treated me the best when she needed me the most. She was very sick at the time and we weren’t sure about whether she would survive or not.

She pulled me close to her and never wanted me to leave her side. Every hour of the day, for as long as I had no school or serious commitments, she wanted me there with her to hold her through the pain, anxiety and fear — the horror of not knowing whether she would make it or not. She was terrified of dying! Even at night, because she was afraid her spirit would leave her body O' so suddenly — a peaceful death, she had an alarm set to go off every two or so hours to make sure she was still alive. When she’d wake (if she managed to fall asleep), she’d call out to me to make sure I was still there to give her a light pinch or squeeze to make sure she truly was present, in this life, with the living as she had always known it to be.

We slept together. Those nights were scary and full of pain even for me because she’d have terrible nightmares and wake up shook and/or in tears. Sometimes, even screaming and shouting. She’d ask me to hold her even tighter and encourage her, or distract her. Maybe tell her a story, or sing her my favourite song, or a song that gave her comfort — her favourite song(s).

Come the passing of this terrible time in her life, one where I was old enough to not only be with, but to understand what was going on, she seemed to switch back to the woman I knew away from her heart condition’s worst extreme. Or did she?

The thing about being so used to negativity is it becomes the expected thing to be received. In fact, it is easier to believe it is what will come from whatever situation is presented, no matter how opposite a happening it may be. The mind finds ways to back up what we believe and/or are used to. This is the story building I covered in one of my previous posts. Goodness, positivity, optimism? That’s too foreign and unbelievable! It’s easier to believe and know that bad things are going to happen as a fact! It’s actually a safety net. And truthfully, once upon a time, it was the key to all our survival. Today though? it’s most unhelpful in too many situations, but a safety net nonetheless!

When it came to Mama and the way that I perceived her, I only saw the worst in her, even when/ if she put her best foot forward. The worst, by the way, may have not been coming out of her, especially in her latter years, the years she was changing for the better. Unfortunately, this did not stop me from feeling suspicious and waiting for her to (excuse my French in advance) fuck up. I was always waiting for the pattern as I had known it to repeat itself, because there was no way in heaven or hell, or the in between place (earth) that my mother was a changed woman.

That day in 2018 when she broke down while still connected to her oxygen machine because she felt like I only treated her like a burden, like I wanted absolutely nothing to do with her and so on, is the day I told her everything in and from my heart. Something I hadn’t done in well over two decades. It was actually one of the things she was not happy about because she remembered me as one to always express myself to her, and to always have something to share with her from random drawings to random writings and thoughts that would pop out of nowhere in no particular order or structure. There really was a time I shared myself with her, and she missed it. She couldn’t understand what had changed so much in me.

It was strange for me to think that there really was a time in our history where I was open with and to my mother. A time where I was comfortable enough! It was a time where when I sat my feet couldn’t touch the ground because they were too high up. They’d hang and like most children, I enjoyed swinging one after the other, sometimes staring at them as I did, and then the ground below, day dreaming about the day that I’d be tallenough for them to touch it. I had a little notebook that I carried with me to most places because I enjoyed drawing whatever was in my surroundings. Mostly, I remember airplanes. We spent enough time at airports for me to have a long enough (still) view of them, and then turn into Jack from the Titanic and draw the beaut in front of me. The beaut that I was falling in love with if not already. I couldn’t get over how huge and heavy they looked, and the fact that despite what I saw, they flew without falling. Obviously because I was so very tiny back then, they looked much bigger than they already are right now!

“Mama look! Mama look! Mama look!" This was me almost all the time, tapping on her arm or pulling on her clothing to show her my latest plane drawing. That is the Malika she remembered so fondly and missed. The adorable little girl that literally everybody couldn’t resist. She didn’t have to tell me this, I could remember the when. In fact, I remember many ‘whens' where I very openly shared my interests and passions with her. Haha, I remember calling her to side at an aunt’s apartment once to sing her a Chris Brown song that I had mastered and was very proud of! ;-)

You see, I didn’t hate my mother. Most times I felt like I did, but I didn’t. To steal something relatable and fitting that Rihanna said in an unforgettable (for me) interview done about ten years ago by Oprah Winfrey, “I thought I hated Chris, and I realised that it was love that was tarnished. It looked like hate cause it was ugly, it was angry, it was inflamed…

It was tainted and I realised that what it was is I had to forgive him because I cared about him still. And the minute I let go of that, like I started living again.”

In actuality, I longed for Mama’s love, affection and attention. The kind that would nurture me in the ways that I needed. I wanted her to love me the way that I loved her. I wanted her to care for me the way I cared for her and show it. There came a time that I did not get that. This was during a period things were even more difficult for her in terms of her job and living situation, I see that now. If I did get what I wanted, it was for a short period of time, too short a time for me to even recognize or accept. It was drowned by the more and many times she failed me emotionally and even physically. I felt as though she only started giving this need to me when it was too late. I was already an adult, I had already learned how to “live without her".

What I mean by “learned to live without her" is when it became clear to me, because of her treatment of me, that she didn’t like and/or want me, because I was but a mistake, a child she did not plan for, a responsibility she had to take up, a tolerance she had to endure, I returned the favour tenfold! I treated our relationship like an arrangement, like a contract soon to completely expire once I was old enough. I admit that I took it to a point where I wanted to punish her for her wrong doings and got stuck in that place. A place where she had to feel just as undeserving and unloved as I felt. My detachment was not only a punishment to/of her, but also a punishment of self. I wanted her to pay me in pain, the way I had paid in pain for years and years. However, seeing her in that condition was not satisfying, not satisfying at all! It was too much for me to bear, or even forgive myself for when I realised just how far I had taken it. I cared and I didn’t care. Both sides very potent, one side greatly surpressed. There she was suffering, and I only did what I had to do for her. Be her caretaker, but not care enough to give her what she really needed, ME.

Now that you have a bit of a back story, it may come as no surprise that I worked very hard to be nothing like her, so I thought. I did not like being told I looked like her, I did not like being told I had inherited her love for literature and her command in the english language. I did not like being told that given more focus and dedication, I’d be a phenomenal cook just like her, because it came out at given times, I just was moody with it! I did not like any sort of comparison to a woman I supposedly “hated" and wanted to be nothing like but would never say because what kind of child disrespects their elder, let alone their mother?! This is Africa, not America!!!

The truth is I am very much like my mother even though I always thought of myself as very different. Here’s an example, in my single digit years, she liked Metal and I liked Hip-Hop — especially the kind with a ton of venting! But really, what’s the difference between the two? The style, yes yes. But beyond that? Isn’t it just an expression of self as is? Daring to go deeper than just a budding feeling of romance? Diving into those less light places and addressing it the best way known given the point in time and feeling the artist is in? No fakery, just 'bluntery’.

I thought she was crazy for finding people screaming their lungs out to very aggressive guitar riffs attractive. She told me she related to them. I remember us spending Sundays at a bar that played the kind of music she liked. I would always think that my mother was insane (in both a good and bad way) for bringing a barely even ten year old to a bar on a “holy day" to “chill". A part of me thinks she thought that since I was a child, I would forget. But no, I did (do) not forget. It’s almost as though these things tattooed themselves in me. She drank, she smoked, I watched, I tried to catch a vibe (from the performing bands) and maybe even catch a high from the smoke in the air, but I couldn’t, so I just pretended. I hated the music! It was too overwhelming for me.

On the other hand, she never understood why I found rap music so attractive. She hated it! They were so vulgar, so disrespectful towards women. I couldn’t love HipHop and be a feminist!? No way! They were too violent. Pimps and hoes, sex and drugs, guns and baggy pants worn low.

According to me, I could say the same about what she liked. They could be just as vulgar if not more sometimes! Just as equally disrespectful in and out of the studio. Just as she had found dimes that she preferred under the genre, so did I under mine. So to put all of HipHop under one popular category that was more judgemental than attempting to break it down was offensive to me. What a sin! I was protective of what I loved. I still am. All she (and many besides her) saw were the wrongs, while I felt all the rights. I related more and more to the reasons behind the words they used. The pain, the resentment, the grudge holds, the anger, the neglect, the trauma… IT WAS REAL. So really, what was the difference between us and the kind of music we liked? It resonated with something deep inside of us that couldn’t have been expressed in any better. Two “extremes" for two “outcasts" who had found their tribes.

Like me, Mama experienced a great range of pain. I think a much greater range than me. I do not want to get into her story because her story is hers to tell. I know parts of it, and I filled in the rest for myself a while back in order to understand just where she was coming from to assist me on my path to acceptance and forgiveness. Unfortunately, this only happened after her death. The saying, 'You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone' is too true! Fortunately, we left things off on a good note, a better note, a lighter more free and honest one.

Here is the thing about being a child, we idolise our parents, our guardians and our elders. We expect them to do no wrong. They become gods to us. We forget that before their position in our lives, they are human, meaning imperfect, meaning they may never be the perfect people to and for us. It is only worse if these 'gods' have been through trials that have left them with open wounds (maybe even infected and spreading the infection) that aren’t even being tended to. Hurt people, hurt people. My situation with Mama was just this. But despite the troubles, my mother is the strongest and most resilient person I have ever known and I hold respect, admiration and appreciation for her. One like no other!

How are we alike? I look like her that’s for sure! But, beneath that?

I ended up a lover of stories just like her. I don’t read as much as she did, but we shared a great interest in mystery and horror. There’s an unforgettable book called 'Twisted' that she lent me, telling me that I would love it. She was not wrong! She had the second, 'More Twisted' and lent it to me after I returned the first. I have never been able to get over those two books (or find them. Sigh) because they were just that good! Mama had the best recommendations, even when it came to things to watch. She wasn’t the kind to restrict what I viewed past a certain age (14). So we’d bond over 'Midsomer Murders' , her favourite crime show of all time! I love how gritty and old it is, I will be getting into it for the first time since her passing soon :-)

Mama was a writer and a journalist. I very unknowingly followed in her footsteps and only realised this during my second year at uni. When I think about my childhood, she really did encourage me to read read read and write! She cultivated a culture in me that I believe inevitably turned me into a writer. When there were no books to read, since at some point in my primary school, we weren’t allowed to bring novels, I’d read my composition books. For this reason, my compositions had to be very interesting! Captivating enough for me to go back and forth!

As a child, since she had the authority to, she saved spots for me in a children’s magazine for me to get published. Yes, I got published a few times in ‘The Standard’ Newspaper (children’s section). I just wish I could remember the exact dates! It would be great for my résumé, as she would sometimes say. Mama had to be very careful about how she went about including me because it could get her in trouble if she did it so many times that other children didn’t get an opportunity that they had to work harder for. You see, for me, she would just ask or even tell me to write and then say she would get it printed. So yes, I didn’t actively look for the opportunity, she handed it to me.

Mama was the most open minded individual I might have ever known. It’s wild to think that I failed to see it for so long. To test this when I was younger, and just learning about gay people in America and their situation (protesting) at the time, I once asked her what would be considered a very controversial question, “If I brought home a girl and told you that I loved her and that she was my girlfriend, would you be okay?” Mama said, “Yes.” She did not second guess, nor did she even act shocked or 'some typa way' that I asked her such a thing. She believed that everybody deserved love and to be loved. It didn’t matter to her whether it was a man with a man, or a woman with woman. It’s funny because I feel that way too. And I don’t know whether it is because of her love, respect and even fight for them at times, or because I generally just look at love and relationships as a soul-spirit-mind(heart) thing. Sure, the body is one part, but it does not count for 'forever’. It is the things unseen that do. So for this particular topic, I see it as not just being about sex, which to my disappointment, many people like to water homosexuality down to.

To add to this point of open mindedness, when I told Mama that I wanted to be a musician, she supported me and looked for ways to support my dream. The opposition did not come from her, it came from the ones “above" her. Of course, she had worries, worries that she was vocal about, but she did not take my dream away from me. I still remember Natalie Lukkenaer (the founder of 'Sauti Academy’) once telling me, “Your Mama really loves you. She calls to find out how you are doing and the progress you are making. She even asks what she can do to help.” From what I remember, Natalie had not experienced that before. Most people in that academy were struggling, they had parents and guardians who refused to accept their children for as long as they chose to pursue music. So many of them had to support themselves, some even risked being kicked out, or had already been kicked out of their homes for “being themselves”. She wanted me to encourage me to take advantage of my Mama’s support and concern because it was RARE and golden. She wanted me to recognise and appreciate my Mama while my Mama was still here.

Natalie's note to me.
Oh yes, I went by 'Lika The Creative' back then.

Oh! Yes! Mama helped alright! I didn’t like it because I felt like Rob Kardashian with a ‘momanger' (mom + manager). She’d wake me up early in the morning (pitch black), and push me to go running to open up my lungs. And then volunteer to sit with me during my vocal exercises at home. In fact, she once told me there was more to being a musician than writing songs which needless to say I was ALWAYS doing. She gave me options, saying that if I just wanted to write songs for people and be behind the scenes, that was okay. We’d just have to look into how to make it work for me so that I’d make money. I said that I wanted to perform my own music and she said if I wanted to be a performing act too, I had to work to become great at it, not just good. I couldn’t allow myself to be forgettable. I needed to be great enough to stand out as a perfomer. Because, clearly what I was working towards wasn’t a joke, and if I wanted to be as big as my favourite acts, I had to get my act together! She was more than willing to encourage me through it by being there with me as I did it.

The day that really confirmed how serious Mama was about how much she believed in me and my dream was a Sunday morning at Nairobi Chapel (Waiyaki Way). It was a service for parents and children. Pastor Ted (I think that was his name) asked the parents to stand, turn to their children and tell them what they wanted them to be. Mama held my hand tenderly, looked in my eyes with a look so sincere and said, “I want you to be a singer. I want my daughter to be a musician,” I teared up but as characteristic of me I didn’t want to look weak so I sucked it up and said, “Thank you.”

Mama had an undying love and gift for anything to do with food and cooking it. She could make magic out of anything! I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but one day, I got a tongue infection. Yes, you read correctly! I didn’t know that was possible until it happened! No, it wasn’t her fault, I can see how the initial flow of this paragraph can be confusing. OOPS!

My tongue got so red, painful and swollen that I could not eat at all. Any pressure applied to it forced tears from my eyes. So I couldn’t talk either. To make life as comfortable as possible for me, Mama blended whatever solid food there was for me, but not without a little twist added of course. Twisted! Do you get the joke? 🤭

Anyway, I couldn’t taste anything but silver and green when the infection was at its ripest. Such disgusting shades of taste! Don’t ask me how colours taste because I don’t know! I just know when I know. This is just how I function. Finally, the treatment started yielding results and I could taste things normally again, plus my tongue was returning to its normal state. OH MY GOODNESS, she was a gifted genius indeed! I am tempted to say she was an alchemist because how even?! How could she so perfectly combine healing properties (elements) with both pleasant and unpleasant elements ? Imagine Ugali, sukuma wiki and sossi (Kenyans, wusgud?!) blended into a soup and then of course that extra extra stuff she added to it that I am yet to know and understand. The blend was better than many things I had tasted in the best restaurants ever. She just…always knew how to turn a thumbs down into a thumbs up so effortlessly. She was a miracle worker.

My Mama was no devil. She may have had problems, problems that hurt me so deeply that I could never see the things that she did right. Her being present was a nuisance, her not being present was a given. You see? I could never see her in the light she deserved to be seen in. I could never accept that my mother loved me more than anything else in this world. I was her reason to keep going. She was learning along the way how to be a good mother to me, for me, for her, for us. And even though it didn’t go smoothly, or according to the timeline I’d have wanted, she still evolved into that person through and through.

A short example (here I go again with the stories!) I will give is when I was afraid that she was falling back into a very inconvenient/unhelpful pattern (binge drinking) that would cost us a lot and had in the past, I expressed my worry. This came after finding fresh bottles hidden in the back of her wardrobe. She apologized and promised me she would get rid of all she had and that I was free to inspect her room whenever I wanted to (without telling her when). She even gave me the option of watching her pour it all down the drain, but I told her that I trusted her to do it. It wasn’t her intention to scare me, she was just going through something. She said she’d find something else less harmful (given the history) to do. I told her that maybe we could just talk, be more open about whatever’s bothering her, and I will tell her whatever is happening with me too. I didn’t have answers, I didn’t think I’d have answers to what she would share, but I was willing to hear her out, to listen, to just be there for her. That my friends is the last time my Mama drank.

So, I am convinced that all she really needed was me to be there with her, to strengthen and support her, to encourage her and not tear her down every time she made an obvious mistake either by word or by action, or non-action for that matter!

She might have always been that person, just not in a position to express it. Too caught up in her own life, as we all tend to get when we get older, and life just ‘lifes' us endlessly where it hurts. I evolved too. And I still am. I just wish that we had more time to evolve together.

I don’t know what you will exit here thinking, but I hope you take something empowering from this. I hope you learn from this. If I had a say in what you should leave here with, it would be leave with a perspective of grace, kindness and sensitivity. It is a difficult one, easier said than done! It may even be corny or cliché to say, but it is true! Sometimes we get too caught up to see things as someone in an observer’s seat would. Assuming the observer observes and judges all sides impartially.

Learn to put the other person’s situation in consideration. And if that’s not possible, be kind enough to be kind. I am not saying lose yourself! I am not saying gaslight yourself. But it helps create something outside of yourself, within yourself, that may help you not only hurt them less, but hurt YOU less too! We’ve all got our loads to carry, let’s try not to make them heavier. Like dominoes (from a famous drunken speech given by me via phone call to one of my fondest people ever on my Mama’s death anniversary — one of them) if one of us falls, WE ALL FALL!

Peace loves 🫶🏿

PS. Here’s a list of songs that played in my head as I typed:

1. Red Red wine- UB40 (in fact, it is this song playing in my head that influenced me to write about my mother. It was strong, like dry red wine, and the line that kept repeating was, “Red red wine, go to my head, make me forget that I still need her so…" )
2. Waves — Mr. Probz.

3. What’s love got to do with it? — Tina Turner.

4. Irresistible — Fall Out Boy
5. America has a problem — Beyoncé
6. This is America — Childish Gambino
7. Tears from my eyes — UB40
8. Back & Forth — Aaliyah

9. Got ‘Til it’s Gone — Janet Jackson, Q-Tip, Joni Mitchell.

They are all underlined because I have attached links to direct you to the songs. Tap away!