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My Mother’s Daughter
<p>I am my mother’s daughter.<br/></p><p>A symbol of her pride.<br/></p><p>Her joy in the middle of uncertainties.</p><p>Her treasure when there is nothing in her pocket worth ₦1,000.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am the gentle smile that settles across her face.<br/></p><p><br/></p><p>I am her crown, the one she raised with authority.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am her friend.</p><p>On my heart are the architecture of her wisdom, the blueprints of everything she taught me. My mind has preserved her image with the kind of respect that does not fade with familiarity.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am my mother’s handiwork.</p><p>Her stories live in my tongue.</p><p>Her etiquette follows me into rooms.</p><p>Her principles sit in my decisions.</p><p>Her rigidity taught me boundaries.</p><p>Her flexibility taught me grace.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am not <a class="tc-blue" href="https://weak.She" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">weak.She </a> did not raise a daughter to fold at the sight of difficulty. She grounds my feet in the loamy soil of audacity.</p><p><br/></p><p>I wear her teachings on my shoulders with confidence.<br/></p><p>I carry her values like medals.</p><p>I carry her name like a banner.</p><p><br/></p><p>My mother is not gone. She is here.</p>
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