Mother’s Day used to be a good day for me. A couple of years ago I posted my favourite picture of Mama on Facebook and wrote a poem about the special bond that mothers and daughters share. The first time I was allowed to use the oven, I had baked Mama her favourite blueberry muffins and made her coffee with whisked milk.

“These are so much better than shop-bought muffins, Naledi, and your cappuccino is so frothy.”

Cards and flowers always filled our living room, because Mama was one of those mothers who mothered everyone. It made me sad sometimes. I thought she was stingy with her love for me, because she was so busy tending to other people, making sure everyone was happy and healthy. Mama never got ill, though.

I believed Mama was invincible until that morning a few months after the October shave-a-thon.

She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, taking out her braids.

“Let me help, Mama.”

We worked together till her hair extensions lay in a pile on the floor. Then I brushed Mama’s hair. I loved her hair that grew so fast, long and lush. She was bending down to pick up the extensions when she suddenly groaned and clung on to the bathroom rail.

“Mama! What is it?”

“Ah…nothing to worry about…” but the pain kept her bent over. “A little twinge, like a stitch…you know like you sometimes get when you run after drinking a lot of water.” But Mama was massaging her breast, not her stomach.

“Do you want some water, Mama….or a painkiller? Mama, are you okay?” I raced out of the bathroom to get her some water. When I got back, Mama was standing in front of the mirror wearing a smile that mopped up my worry. She sipped the water I had brought her. Whenever I felt unwell, it was she who fussed around me and made me better.

But then a few days later, I caught her grimacing in front of the bathroom mirror. “Call your father for me, Naledi…and close the door behind you…and a glass of water, please. It must be something I ate.”

My stomach started to turn cartwheels as I ran to fetch my father. He was outside, smoking.

“Papa! Mama’s sick.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and within seconds he was in the bathroom. When I returned with Mama’s water, I heard him shouting into his cellphone. “Tell him we are on our way! Are you sitting on your ears? It’s not me who’s ill. It’s my wife.”

And then the bathroom door was flung open and Papa and Mama emerged from inside. Papa was supporting Mama, her arm round his shoulders. She was walking like every step was painful. Halfway down the corridor Papa picked Mama up. I opened the front door for them, then the car’s passenger door. Mama sat down and Papa twisted the knob on the side of the seat so it reclined. I closed the door for Mama and was getting into the back seat when Mama said something to Papa. He said to me, “No. Wait for us. You need to study for your exam.”

I slammed the door shut and stood by the driveway watching the red car reverse down the driveway and on to the busy street. I don’t know how long I stood there, watching them disappear. Something stirred inside making my stomach turn cartwheels again. I reached the toilet just in time.

My lunch burst out of me.

***

Tell us: Does worry ever make you feel sick?