Sisters: Try to Find a Balanced Approach to Mothering… If You Can

Once upon a time, in a town just like yours, there lived two mothers. There were seven children born between the pair, each child in possession of the average needs that you’d expect: food, shelter and love. These the two mothers provided faithfully.

One night, a terrible frost struck the town and all of the inhabitants therein trembled with frightful palsy for the sake of the chill that overtook them. The two mothers looked upon their children and cried out to Heaven, saying “Lo! Why must my children suffer this gelid hell? Indeed I shall warm them, and they shall live!”

And so the first mother lit herself aflame for the sake of her offspring as her children watched in horror yet warmed their bodies with the heat of her melting flesh.

The second mother looked upon her shivering brood with compassion, rose in the night, took an article of clothing from each to protect herself from the elements, and left their abode giving the following instructions upon her departure:

“My children – watch each other well. See I have taken cloth from each of you to warm my own body as I set upon this journey that I must take for all our sakes. I beg you to look after one another. Support each other with the strength and warmth of the shared blood that flows in your veins. I shall not be gone long.”

The children, not understanding all that their mother said took heed nevertheless, and huddled together in the dark of the night and were warmed. At dawn, their mother returned with firewood from the forest and marshmallows from Publix and the family was content and happy.

In the meantime, all the Twitter Niggaz of the realm had gathered together to hold a great feast in honor of the mother who had set a fire in her flesh, calling her most blessed among women, extolling her virtues among all others. They ate meat and drank wine but did not share the abundance with the now orphaned children.

“God will look after you all,” the growled.

Their uproarious caterwauling piqued the interest of the second mother, who passing by paused to listen to the banter of the cabal. One among them – a malodorous voyeur who shamelessly stalked “ungovernable” women – alerted the group to her presence saying: “See here! This is the very woman I old you all about…the self same slattern with the stinking pussy who refused to sacrifice her body for her children. See how she stands here unashamed…and alive!”

And so it was that all the Twitter Niggaz began to pelt her stones and lobby curses at her genitalia, since the are generally incapable of participating in intelligent deliberation if it precludes derision of a woman’s reproductive machinery.

“Whore!”

“Slut!”

“Ashawo!”

“Prostitute!”

they screamed.

But the woman could not hear them. Something in the sand had caught her attention. Seeing a seed on the ground, kicked to and fro among the shuffling feet of those in the enraged crowd, the mother dove into the press took it into her bosom. She returned to her children. She planted it in the ground, watered it and waited to see what would spring forth. In time, it grew into a mighty baobab, the fruits of which fruits fed her children and the branches and bark of which warmed them and their offspring to this day.

Then the Twitter Niggaz gathered themselves around the eldest daughter of the mother who had sacrificed her body that fateful night and convinced her that it was her solemn duty as a woman to burn her own body for the sake of her children, should such a frost hit the town again.

“There are many benefits to your sacrifice,” the cooed, “burn your body as you would unto god. Sacrifice is the province of women…not of men.”

The Eldest Daughter did not question the Twitter Niggaz, fearing reprisal; for what does it profit a young woman to stand in defiance of Twitter Niggaz who spout “grown man thoughts”? Seeing what they had done to her Auntie and not wanting to be labeled a whore, she swore an oath saying “Amen” every time a passing Twitter Nigga or Facebook Fuqboi dropped by her domain with a meme.

And one day, years after she too found herself impregnated by one among their ranks – like her mother before her. And as the Twitter Niggaz predicted a bitter frost struck the land once again. Recalling her promise, she did her duty. She lit herself aflame and died that her children might live, never witnessing the great deeds that her descendants would one day achieve as a result.

But is matters not. Her reward is veneration from Twitter Niggaz.

As for the mother who planted the tree: She prospered, lived on to a ripe old age and sucked on peaches brought to her by her great-grandchildren. Her ingenuity was never celebrated, because it was not mired in victimhood and because she refused to lay herself on the brazen alter of Fuqboi sacrifice. They never forgave her for having the audacity to choose life. 

It still unknown whether she cared or not.

And so my friends, the debate rages on: Both sets of children were warmed, but who is the ‘better’ mother? What say you?