Chidiogo Akunyili-Parr

Transcript

The first time my mother told me that she loved me would be the last. It was a Friday and we were together in her hospital room in Abuja, Nigeria. Mustering some strength, she turned her body towards mine and she was quite frail then. And she looked at me and there it was, those words. I love you. I froze. I didn't know what to say. I smiled perhaps too weakly. Perhaps it was that I didn't have the habit to respond. You see, in Nigeria, the parent-child relationship is not really that it that expresses itself that way or maybe I was still reeling from the effects of that fight.

It was our first and our worst fight. That one where she called me names. Animal. Useless. Dog. Words that were very unusual for her and there they were flung at me. Each a dagger to my soul. A year after that fight the diagnosis came. Cancer and it was terminal. So I had to swallow my pain. I had to be there for her. And with so much left unsaid, we moved on. Neither one of us healing from the pain we were feeling.

There we were together. Later that Friday, she would board a plane to India for an emergency treatment. And I would return home to Geneva where I was living at the time. But I had so much weighing on me. How could I find the words to express to my mother the pain that lingered from this fight? And how could I find the words to tell my mother just how much I loved her? And then there was this intuition. Why not write her?

Something we never did before. And so I did. Allow me to share an excerpt of this email. At that point, she couldn't take calls. It had become so weak. I have it here. I realize I should have thought of writing you earlier. Writing, after all, is the only way I really know how to express myself. I've always been saddened by the events of last year, mostly because I realized just how little you knew me and I you. And the manifestation was regrettable but does not define us.

Or simply the sad result of misunderstandings and not communicating which resulted in a breakdown of the worst kind. But as we neither of us wants to live in the past, we moved on. However, what we forgot though was that the past has a way of catching up with us. We can't outrun it. Our only choice really is to face up to it and deal with it. This takes a lot of courage. I have prayed for this courage because I'm quite tired of running from the past, especially because it sabotages the present and the future.

The present is where I live and the future is what my heart dreams. I want to introduce you to the woman you formed. This is my one act of standing up to the past and welcoming the future with my mother. I love you. Chidiogo. My sister would later share that when she heard this mail read to her, she would cry. My mother never cried. Four days later, I was in a ferry in Geneva and a call came. It was from my sister.

Chichi, Mommy nwa mụ. Mommy's dead. Time didn't slow down. It took on the texture of a farce. The sun continued to shine and the ferry continued its steady glide glide on the lake. Life went on. I learned something so important, albeit in the face of death in this experience. That voice of intuition that you hear, that one that said write her that message, listen to it. I wondered of all the things that I'd always wanted to do but didn't find the courage to do.

And I decided to step fully into my truth and live fully in my truth. And this decision has led me to found my organization. It's called She Roars. Supporting women to tap into the strength of this guidance and unleash their full potential. It's also led me to write a novel. And I knew just the story. It was the story of this woman that I called mother mother. And millions called her the iron lady. The Amazon. Ugo wem mota. The mirror of wisdom.

For the life that she lived that touched so many. In writing her story, I discovered the interconnectedness between hers and mine. And in uncovering this journey, it became a journey of my own un- un- uncovered I- uncovered identity. I saw how her stories was linked to the stories of those that came before her. It is the interconnectedness of Ubuntu. I am because you are. And I decide in this continuation of identity that is now the life that I'm occupying now to live it in truth.

And that truth and connection, that intuition that is guided by all those that came before me. And to trust so deeply in that guidance. I recently wrote the last words of the novel. And it reads, Dearest Mommy, Omu, it is I, Chichi. I love you so much. Thank you.

Transcript generated from the recording and lightly cleaned. Some names and wording may differ from the spoken speech.