The African Mothers’ Handbook

My mother’s birthday was three weeks ago. The day before, I shared some hilarious stories about her and by extension, African parenting. The way they react to things, turning normal life situations into dramatic episodes worthy of an Oscar Award, and somehowmaking our childhood a beautiful, unforgettable experience wrapped in a chaotic form of love.

There’s something strangely universal about African mothers. You could grow up in Kano, Lagos, Accra, Nairobi, or Kigali, and your mom would still behave like mine. These women don’t know each other, but somehow, they all seem to be reading or to put it more succinctly, copying and pasting from the same document. Some sort of African Mothers’ Handbook, passed down through generations, where they learn the sacred arts of shouting, praying, cleaning at dawn, and transforming pepper soup into a healing elixir. They are all gifted in turning old stew into jollof rice with a precision that leaves the children and/or the neighbours in awe.

This post is not just about my mother. It’s about ourmothers. The women who raised us, roasted us, and rebuked demons with anointing oil in one hand and slippers in the other.

From “motivational” insults to unsolicited TED Talks, and feather ruffling life coaching, African moms are a whole experience. 

So, let’s reflect on the things that unite us - not blood, nottribe, but trauma, broom beatings, and fried plantain served with a bombastic side-eye.

The Eyes at the Back of Her Head

I spent most of childhood convinced my mother had eyes at the back of her head. She always knew. You could not do anything sneaky without being caught, not because you were loud or careless, but because maybe, she dreamt about everything that will happen before the day breaks.

You could lie with a straight face and the Bible in your hand, but she’d ask, “Are you sure?” in that tone that made you confess things you hadn’t even done yet. Apparently, I wasn’t alone. Every African child grew up under that surveillance system that required no CCTVbecause mummy already saw it in her dream.

 

Privacy Is an Oyibo People’s Culture

African mothers do not knock. They barge in like soldiers. Privacy? That one is “oyibo people’s” behaviorna. You could be in a serious Zoom meeting or a job interview, trying to sound professional, and she’ll walk in mid-call shouting, “Come and help me plug this phone!” No apologies. Just parental entitlement. And afterward, she’ll ask, “Who were you even talking to sef?” like your office pays her salary to micromanage you.

 

You’re Not in a Relationship, You Have a ‘Friend’

In your mind, you're dating. To her? You’re “just friends.” You could bring the guy home, take cute matching pictures, and she’ll still say, “That your friend that came last week… he’s not bad o.” Try explaining “situationship” to her, and you’ll lose all your dignityand get a look that says: “You children don’t even know what you’re doing.”  She will respond with something like, “In our time, we married. No situation, no confusion, and most of us didn’t do friendship.”

Saturday Morning PTSD

There’s this infamous “wake up and clean” tradition. You could be asleep, dreaming of a peaceful life abroad, and suddenly you hear the broom against the floor, the bucket dropping, and then the loudest insult: “Lazy girl! You’re sleeping and dirt is piling, is this what you want to be doing in your husband’s house?!” It’s not even 6 a.m. but you must get up. She’ll find dirt that doesn’t exist. She’ll clean things. Rearrange already arranged things. Wash clothes you just folded. And somehow still expect you to thank her for the stress.

 

She’s Never Tired. Ever.

And don’t make the mistake of calling her out for overworking herself. Because now, you’ve offended her deeply. She’ll respond with: “You think I’m complaining? I’ve been doing this before you were born! You children of nowadays don’t know how to suffer.” Suddenly, you're the villain, and she’s a martyr. Yourintentions were good, but now you have to apologize for suggesting that she rests.

 

Prayer Warriors and Anointing Oil Ministry

Their spiritual game? 10/10. African moms are prayer warriors. They don’t just pray. They wage war. You'll be trying to sleep and suddenly hear your name being shouted in prayers. She’ll anoint your forehead and pen before your exam, your pillow before bed, and your shoes for “academic speed.” My mom will anoint the soup she just cooked. African mothers don’t play. Lol

 

Their Love Language Is... Complicated

Now let’s address the insults disguised as compliments. African moms don’t know how to say “I’m proud of you” directly. Instead, they say things like: “So you finally used your head today” or “At least you didn’t disgrace me for once.” All of these translates into “I love you, and I’m proud.”

If you’re upset and she offers you food? That’s an apology. If she hides the biggest meat in your soup? That’s affection. You only need to learn to read between the lines. Her love is often tough, loud, and dramatic, but it’s love nonetheless.

 

The Tenderness Wrapped in Smoke

In all their drama and strictness, there are those rare, quiet moments that leave you speechless. The call just to say, “I was thinking about you” or to pray over you with so much warmth and no shouting. The joy on her face when you succeed. Damn! It hits different. They may not always get it right, but despite their firebrand approach, African mothers love with every inch of themselves. Through the discipline, the shouting, the unsolicited advice, and the unexpected “slaps of wisdom,” they’re simply trying to raise us to be responsible adults.

Because deep down, under the firmness and fire, there’s a woman who has sacrificed more than we’ll ever understand. Who has cried silently when we failed, rejoiced quietly when we succeeded, and kept loving us when we were too foolish to deserve it.

So yes, this post began as a tribute to my mother on herbirthday, but has ended up becoming a love letter to all African mothers.

The women who gave us character, thick skin, loud confidence, and the ability to pray without fear. They may never fully understand hashtags, mental health, or "soft life" dreams, but they raised warriors, dreamers, survivors.

God bless African mothers... for the drama, for the prayers, and for never giving up on us even when we forgot the rice on the fire.

…..Sweet Lilian