
lirik lagu hododio - mama's love
i have left home without permission on countless occasions, but i could bet, mama surely knew i would come back for supper. that gathering is where we solved our problems. supper has been more like a family gathering
“vi ɖogbɔdo kae menya be, aƒemɛ woɖua fianyi nuɖuɖu le o?”. that was how i was brought up
want to be my guest for dinner? then, be prepared to have a separate table. family is sacred. “ameaɖeke mase miaƒe nyaɣaɣla o”!!
any woman who counts heads before preparing supper probably does not have a child
my step ~ mother used to count us before she makes dinner. she had a rule, “…if you are not around, you miss it”. my old boy, full of wisdom, said we should give her some time. surely those rules naturally died after she heard the cry of her own baby
because it is natural for every woman with a seed to know the number of people who lives in her home and makes extra food for the sake of the long unforeseen night
i know this because i was brought up in a polygamous home
fufue wonye wotoá? agbeli li. that’s the only time we sincerely understand that punishments were meant to transform, but not to k!ll us
“enɔ si sivi dzié sena veve na eƒe dɔmevi.” even if your womb doesn’t tickle, your saggy br~~sts will definitely testify
don’t be emotional
mie ɖuanu le gbɔme, but our supper always came from mama’s pot. we don’t care how bad it tastes. gadd~mnit! that is mama’s recipe
what other way would you know how her day went? ask her? her recipes were more of a language than a mere meal
how far have i been from home that i couldn’t show up?
miɖoa gbɔdo but when the echoes from daavi’s voice hit us, we couldn’t resist going back home to run errands
on a good day, prizes were paid with fish heads. it is a natural connection, a perfect bond i wasn’t trained for
i also understand how a child’s body language communicates with a father’s instinct
let me tell you a stroy
one day, when papa came from the farm. i fetched him his lazy chair. he sat on the corridor waiting for his meal. i served him a chilled water from the pot in the corner of his room
on a regular day, i would go back to the kitchen just after i attended to him. but this time, i stayed a little long. everywhere seemed quiet. i could even hear the sound of my own breath. everyone expects papa’s rage. something was wrong
papa asked me to co come closer. “nukae newɔ?”, he asked in a soft voice. he brushed his hands through my back and arms. the bruises felt deeper in his palms. “those are not from your maternal mother.” efo needn’t have to ask who laid hands on his child
how many times didn’t mama throw a flip~flop on target? now, tell my why she misses the bankuta?
of course, the hands of a mother are straight enough to shape you, but not too tough enough to break you. they are full of love and care
mothers are considerate. their love is soft but real
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