30/03/2025
āThe Voice in the Darkā
The night was thick with silence, except for the distant croaking of frogs and the whisper of the Bonny Riverās waves. It was the kind of night that wrapped itself around you like a heavy blanket, pressing down on your soul.
I was alone in my room when I heard itāa voice.
"Tamuno! Tamuno! My son, wake up!"
My heart slammed against my ribs. My mother was miles away in the village, and no one else called my name that way. But the voice was hers. Clear. Urgent. Close.
I jumped up, scanning the dark corners of my room. "Mama?" My voice barely came out. But no one was there.
I rushed to check my phone. No missed calls. No messages. Nothing.
Was I dreaming? Or was something terribly wrong?
I couldnāt sleep after that. My thoughts churned like the river during a storm. Was she in danger? Did she need me?
At dawn, I made a decision. I had to find out what was going on.
I traveled to the village the next morning, my mind racing with questions.
As soon as I arrived at our family home, I found my younger sister, Ogonibo, outside, feeding the chickens. She gasped when she saw me.
"Tamuno! Mama has been calling for you all night!"
I felt the blood drain from my face. Had she really called me?
I rushed inside. Mama was lying on her bamboo bed, her face pale but filled with joy when she saw me.
"I knew you would come," she whispered, her frail hands reaching for mine.
I knelt beside her. "Mama, whatās wrong?"
She smiled weakly. "Nothing, my son. I just needed to see you. I felt it in my spirit that you were drifting away. Youāve forgotten what I taught you."
I frowned. Drifting away? From what?
"Sit, my son," she said, patting the space beside her.
And then, she began to speak.
"Do you know why the river never runs dry?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Because it remembers its source. The moment a river forgets where it comes from, it dries up. My son, you have been so busy chasing life that you forgot your foundation."
Tears pricked my eyes. She was right. Since moving to the city, I had barely called her. I had been too consumed with work, money, and success.
"A mother is like the root of a great tree," she continued. "If the root is forgotten, the tree will wither. You must never forget where you came from, Tamuno."
Her words hit me like a tidal wave. I had neglected the very person who had prayed for me, sacrificed for me, and loved me unconditionally.
She squeezed my hand. "The Bible says in Proverbs 1:8-9: āListen, my son, to your fatherās instruction and do not forsake your motherās teaching. They are a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck.ā"
I bowed my head, ashamed. I had forsaken my motherās teaching.
That night, I sat by her side, listening to her stories, feeling the warmth of her love.
And for the first time in a long time, I truly understood.
A motherās love is a silent prayer that keeps us alive.
If you still have a mother, call her. Visit her. Listen to her wisdom. Donāt wait for a mysterious voice in the night to remind you of her worth.
Because one day, when the voice is gone, you will long to hear it just one more time.
