A few nights ago, over dinner with a workmate, we found ourselves lost in a conversation about parenting. We compared the way we raise children today with the way we were raised, and we both agreed that our generation of parents is much softer. We laughed at how we once survived tougher rules, the sticks, and discipline that seemed harsh then, but somehow made us who we are today. The conversation brought back a flood of nostalgic memories of my childhood in Gulu, Uganda, growing up under the watchful eyes of my mother.
She was a single
mother, raising four children on a primary school teacher's salary. At the
time, I never understood the weight she carried: Feeding us and paying school
fees on one hand, working full-time, doing her lesson plans on the other hand,
and still planning for a future. What I knew was that when she raised her voice
or her eyes narrowed, you obeyed. And when you disobeyed, the stick reminded
you. Her primary weapon was a stick and caning as a form of punishment. And I,
being the most stubborn of her children, often felt its sting more than my
siblings. I received several strokes for being stubborn, for performing poorly
in school, for fighting, and for not doing house chores. But the stick was only
one part of her discipline. The other part was her unbending rules, those clear
instructions that shaped how we behaved in our home and outside. Those rules,
though seemingly harsh, were the foundation of the lessons that shaped the way
we moved in the world.
One of those rules
was: never eat at anybody's house other than ours. It didn't matter if you were
hungry, or how sweet the smell from your neighbour's pot was, or how hastily
inviting the aroma was, you were to politely say no. I am not hungry, or I have
just eaten. I kept that rule in my head like a commandment. One school holiday,
my elder sister and I stayed at our grandmother's house in Gulu town. One
afternoon, we visited our uncle, who lived a few blocks away. My male cousins
and I played soccer in the compound while my sister joined her cousins in the
kitchen. When the food was ready, everyone sat to eat. But me? I refused. Even
when my sister invited me, I shook my head. In my little mind, the rule was
clear: never eat at anybody's house. Relatives or not, my mother had never
mentioned exceptions. I waited, hungry and stubborn, holding onto my mother's
words. Later, as we walked back to my grandmother's house, I told my sister I
would report her to my mum for eating. I imagined the joy of watching her being
caned for disobeying mother's rule. But when we returned home weeks later and I
proudly reported her, both my sister and my mother laughed. My mother corrected
me gently: "Yes, I said don't eat at anybody's house, but with relatives,
it is different." I was disappointed. Not only had I starved for nothing,
but the punishment I was hoping to see my sister endure never came.
Food itself was a
discipline in our home, steeped in the cultural traditions of the Acholi
people. Meat or chicken was reserved for Sundays or special days when fortune
smiles or a relative visited. We ate from one bowl, and we would all sit around
it. But no matter how much meat floated in the soup, no child dared to touch
it. First, you ate the soup with posho or millet bread. Only when your mother
reached in, tore a piece, and placed it in your hand did you taste meat. The
wait was long, but patience was the rule. That training followed me everywhere,
and when I visited other homes, my training betrayed me. One day, it hurt me
again at my uncle's house.
Months later, I went
to visit my uncle in Lacor, located in the west of present-day Gulu city. It
was a dry season, and hunters had returned with anyeri (edible rat),
smoked and dried. Anyeri is highly treasured among the Acholi people,
cooked with 'odii' (homemade peanut butter) until it becomes a delicacy
fit for kings and eaten with 'kwon kal' (millet bread). That evening
under the full moon, we sat outside in the compound, men and boys around one
bowl and a heap of kwon kal. Everyone dipped into the soup, picked the
meat freely, chewed and enjoyed. Everyone except me. My mother's lesson held me
like a chain: never take meat until it is given to you. So, I ate soup and
waited, and waited, until most of the meat was gone. Only then did my uncle
notice. "Ouma, have you eaten meat?" he asked. My answer was a weak
"no", and with it came tears. The men roared with laughter, and I was
hurting inside, feeling humiliated. That night, I went to bed with a heavy heart
and my faith in my mother's lesson fading. I started to see that sometimes the
lessons of home do not fit in the world outside.
But my mother's
discipline was not only in food or caning. Sometimes it came in her words that
were warnings wrapped in disguise. If she was leaving home to go somewhere and
clothes were drying on the line, she would say, "Let me come back and find
rain has beaten these clothes." Or if grains or beans were drying in the
sun, she would say, "Let me return and find them soaked." Or if food
was cooking on fire, she would tell my sisters, "Let the food on fire get
burned." She never told us directly what to do, but we knew what would
happen if her words became true. And there was her look, that silent language
of African mothers. When visitors came and we crowded the living room with our
dirty faces, she would throw us one sharp look. No words. But we knew we must
disappear, go outside, and let the elders have their peace.
Now that I am older,
I see what I could not see then. My mother's methods were not gentle, not soft,
but were created in the fire of survival. She raised us with discipline,
toughness, and faith that it would carry us further than softness ever could.
And it did. The sticks taught me boundaries. The rules taught me patience, her
eyes taught me respect. But her lessons also left me with questions as a
parent. I learned that discipline without explanation can injure. That rules
without context can leave a child hungry. That silence can command respect, but
also fear.
Today, as I raise my
own children, I often ask myself: how do I take the strength of my mother's
discipline and weave it with the gentleness this new world requires? How do I
teach patience without making hunger the teacher? How do I teach respect for elders
without silencing the voice of a child? Perhaps that is the mystery of
parenting. My mother did what she could with the tools she had, and I must do
the same in my time. Parenting will never be perfect. It is always a balancing
act between discipline and love, between silence and speech, between humility
and courage. My mother's way was not easy, but it shaped me. And in my own way,
I am still learning how to pass on the same strength but with less hunger.
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