Friday, 7 December 2007

On......the search for my biological mother

I feel sorry for adoptive parents sometimes. They spend a lifetime investing financially and emotionally in the well being of a child only to one day hear the words "I wonder what my biological mother looks like". What drives this curiosity that makes an adopted child, such as myself, want to seek out a complete stranger? I find myself, with increasing regularity, thinking about my birth mother. I want her to hold me and to tell me that she loves me. I want to see her cry and regret ever putting me up for adoption. I want to know why she gave up on me when all I ever wanted was her love. I want to know why she failed me.

My adoptive mother has not been particularly unkind to me nor has she violated me in any way. Quite the contrary in fact, she welcomed me with open arms into her home even though she had other children to attend to. I suppose I am just growing older and starting to see things with the eyes of an adult. It is very clear to me now, for example, that she loves her own children a bit more than she loves me. She will never openly admit this of course but she treats them with just enough more favour that I cannot fail to notice.

The dilemma of the adopted child is a complex one. On the one hand you are thankful for the safe environment that your adoptive mother has created and nurtured you in. You are grateful for the opportunities she has given you. You are beholden to them for things that every child should have. Security. A sound education. On the other hand you can't help wondering if your biological mother could have and perhaps should have tried to provide all these things for you as well.

I still remember what my biological mother looks life. To this day she remains the most beautiful woman I have seen. She had beautiful brown skin the colour of earth. Her eyes were luminous and always filled me with hope and optimism. Her voice was like the sound of Benue night, rich and magical. This is how I remember her.

I have found her. My search was not long. She remains where she always was, steadfast and resolute. She is dying though. She needs a series of operations to make her well again. She needs my help. Not just my financial help. She needs my presence. In my mind I can hear her calling for me. I miss my mama. Although she gave me up at the age of 16, I now feel the overwhelming urge to return to her side. I want for us to rediscover each other. I want her to be proud of the man that I have become. I wish to gaze into her eyes again and feel that hope that I once felt.

If you see Mama before me tell her that I am coming. Her name is Nigeria. England will miss me but she will understand.

If you see my mama, Hosanna

Tell am say o, Hosanna

I dey for Jand o, Hosanna

I dey come my village, Hosanna