Home Read What's New Join
My Account Login

Read Our Devotional             2016 Opportunities to be Published             Detailed Navigation

The HOME for Christian writers! The Home for Christian Writers!
The Official Writing Challenge



how it works
submission rules
guidelines for
choosing a level


submit your entry
read current entries
read past entries
challenge winners

Our Daily Devotional HERE
Place it on your site or
receive it daily by email.



how it works   Submit

Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 – Advanced)
Topic: Teacher (10/26/06)

TITLE: My unwitting teacher
By Folakemi Emem-Akpan


My unwitting teacher

Dad left when I was six, and poverty quickly moved in with us. Not that we were rich when he was around, but we had good food to eat, attended good schools and were better off than most of our neighbors.

When he left, a younger lady in tow, the world seemed to crash around my mother’s ears. Yes, I was young, but I’d always been a feeler. I’d look at her pinched face and conclude she was missing dad real bad.

It would take me several years to understand that her concerns ran raggedly beyond missing the one man who’d abandoned her with four children. Being on the lowest rung of the minimum wage cadre, she was in a constant state of worry. What would we eat? How to pay our school fees? What would we wear?

The first solution was easy. A benevolent stranger lent her two patches of arid land, and we immediately became a farming family. She made it look like fun. Who can grow the juiciest tomato? Who can hoe the fastest? We loved her something crazy, so helping out was easy and natural. After months of hauling water to and fro, we were rewarded by leafy vegetables, sturdy tubers, and succulent fruits.

The second problem was not as easily solved. There was no way she could simply afford having all of us in the schools we’d attended when dad was around. So we changed schools.

I didn’t fit in to my new public school. The other children preferred eating and screaming to learning, and the teachers just didn’t care. I wallowed in self-misery and did not try to be like the other kids.

Mum found me another school, one that swallowed a third of her salary every month. That was when my learning process began. I began to learn self-sacrifice, even though my teacher was an unwitting one.

I’d watch Mum push her plate towards my elder brother, whose stomach was a deep hole.
“Eat your fill, honey. The food is not really sitting so well on my stomach.”

I remember she had one white dress, and it was her uniform to every party she got invited to. One late evening, I overheard her telling my aunt that a friend had insulted her at the wedding they attended, asking her if she had nothing else to wear but this. Meanwhile, we the children had a variety of clothes (albeit old), and she always scrimped and saved to ensure we had at least one new Christmas dress. Some years, we even got a birthday dress.

She’d buy us candy, at the expense of her own lunch, so that we could feel like normal kids and boast about the huge candy we consumed when we arrived school the following day.

I often heard her stomach growling. I was a light sleeper and often found her awake in the middle of the night, tallying up figures and drinking gaari*** to assuage her hunger. That didn’t mean we kids wouldn’t have a feast of rice, plantain and chicken the next morning.

It’s nineteen years since dad left. He made a brief appearance back in our lives some years ago, penniless, womanless and unrepentant.

The lean years are over.

Over the years, God blessed my mother’s earnest work. She built two houses, now lives in London and travels extensively. Yet, she’d rather you have that kitchen appliance you saw in the Argos catalogue than go to her hairdresser’s this week, all paid and delivered with her own money.

I find myself trying to be like her.

In my home, there’s no shortage of money. But when there’s a piece of chicken left in the freezer which I know my husband would like to eat, I control my appetite and find something else to eat.

When he wants to watch football and I want to watch Who wants to be a millionaire, I allow him, thinking of my Mum.

When my daughter wants to play and I want to read, I quietly drop my book and enter her little world with her.

Mum doesn’t have a clue how, but the lesson she taught unknowingly is the best of them all.

***Gaari is a powder made from cassava. It’s dissolved in water, so as to be edible.

A true story.

The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.

This article has been read 708 times
Member Comments
Member Date
Joe Moreland11/02/06
This is one of those articles where the story is so compelling you keep reading. You presented it in such a style as to capture my attention from the beginning and never letting me think about bailing out. It seemed the words flew by and it over all too soon. Great job of telling us about an amazing woman.
Marilyn Schnepp 11/05/06
What an amazing mother! I love true stories even if this one brought me to tears. Great job of a memorable woman! I hope she's still around to reap her benefits.
cindy yarger11/05/06
Ah - I'm on the right article now! Very well done. I hope that if your mum is living that you share this story with her. A great way to start my morning. Thanks!