I was supposed to start this post by saying how much I hate November 14th, and how the day always ends with me crying. But I don’t want to do that anymore.

This day has rolled around 6 times and every year, I do not share with everyone what it means to me. I say, “Don’t make things awkward by complaining and moping in public”. And every year, at midnight, my heart breaks because I feel like I had one chance to celebrate my mum and I didn’t. So here goes.

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Susan Akweyo, my mum.

My mum knew all the lyrics to her favorite songs. She had a noisy little radio that she’d place in the corridor, so the music could be heard in the sitting room, kitchen, and all our bedrooms. And she’d make her way back and forth the corridor, in and out of her room, dancing and singing along to every song they played. Sometimes she’d whistle too.

My mum went to Buganda Road for her primary school, Namasagali for O Level and was proudly a part of the first A-Level class at Uganda Martyr’s SS Namugongo. She was a good daughter and a kind, but sometimes stubborn sister. 

My mum went to Nkozi University. She was a bright, somewhat skinny 25-year-old woman with a chubby 1-year-old daughter, on full scholarship for her Master’s Degree. One of my core memories is sitting with her in an airy dining hall at, a long wooden table. I have a red cup of milk and a mandazi, but I don’t remember what she has. For the longest time, I thought I had imagined this until I went back to Nkozi in 2017 and what did I see - an airy dining hall filled with long wooden tables.

My mum took me on a trip to Rwanda once. I don’t remember much about the trip, except sitting at the back of the Costa with her and her friends, watching the blurry lights from the car behind us, and worrying about the man I saw riding a bicycle between that car and ours. I also remember being handed a glass bottle of Coca-Cola that I thought was too big for me. 

My mum loved cleaning. She’d make sure we washed all our clothes in two rounds and rinsed in three. Every day was laundry day and every day was cleaning day and because of this, her house was always immaculately clean. In the evenings she’d sit in the living room, iron my brother and sister’s little tees and shorts, fold them all by hand, and pack them in their suitcases.

My mum was an amazing cook, but she didn’t like being in the kitchen. So we’d cook, and she’d critique, and we’d complain, and she’d laugh and tell us that she’s helping us prepare for our homes. 

My mum loved flowers. She'd hoped to get enough time off work to turn our compound into a flower garden. 

My mum was intelligent, brave, and full of love.

Today, it is seven years and two days since I last spoke to my mum and I miss her very much.

I went to Buganda Road for my primary school. I am a Master’s student on full scholarship in Rwanda. I love mandazi and milk, and flowers. I am a good daughter and a kind, but sometimes stubborn sister. I love cleaning, but my house isn’t always immaculately clean. I am my mother’s child.

Dearly Beloved.