Extract If you were lucky, you had a second mother. It could have been an aunt or a neighbour or a family friend from church. Your real mother was the one at home who gave birth to you and/or raised you. With her, you had an appropriately formal relationship. She checked your homework and your pulse when you claimed your fever would be bad for other children at the school. The mother-at-home gave you chores and put clothes on your back. First mothers do their duty; they raise you.
The second mother is different. This is the person you confide in about things you dare not talk to your real mother about. She is the one you consult about a teenage girlfriend or your niggling questions about God. The other mother drops everything and sits down with you, listening earnestly, smiling all the time. She makes a small problem sound serious enough to give you her time and attention. To this mother you are not just another child, and to you she is a confidante.
What is nice about the second mother is that she will not judge your teenage self. She is unlikely to say: “Oh no! Don’t tell me you’re pregnant” or “You failed again?” Nope, the second mother listens intently, hugs you and then says something sensible: “Now let’s figure out how we can get you through this.” By the time you’ve shared a problem with your other mother, you just feel so much better.
This past Saturday we buried my second mother. Auntie Barbara (“Babs”) James was that salt-of-the-earth kind of mother who saw me through the most difficult years of my young life. When I failed my first year of university studies, I sat down with Auntie Babs telling her tearfully how hard it was to travel so far with so little money to classes I half-understood (in formal Afrikaans) and with all the burdens put on my family. I complained bitterly about how difficult it was to study my first-year science courses in a small council house filled with the constant noise of children, visitors and customers knocking on the door to buy fruit-and-veg from my hawker dad all times of the day and night.
By the time you’ve shared a problem with your other mother, you just feel so much better.
Auntie Babs listened quietly and smiled softly. Then she got up to make us tea and cut some slices of her famous chocolate cake that we shared in the late afternoon sun. Auntie Babs did not ask me awkward questions nor did she chide me about my erratic study hours. What she did was much more – to be there as both a wise elder and a close friend at the same time. I stood up, determined to try again.
The little garage in front of her house would henceforth become my place of study from early morning to late except on church nights when the faithful gathered there. A friend, also from the cramped council houses, joined me, studying for his dentistry degree. Every day, without fail, Auntie Babs would bring breakfast, then lunch and late-afternoon tea and cakes. In time you would wait to hear the shuffle of the slippers as she made the turn from the main house along the tiled pathway to the garage. We would open the door, Auntie Babs would deliver the food tray and, after some laughs or chatter, she would walk away with the soft admonition: “You boys need to study!”
The other day I got an urgent message from Auntie Babs’s eldest daughter. “Mummy is hanging on; she won’t go until she sees you one more time.” It is the kind of message I tend to be sceptical about. Can humans really will themselves towards or away from death? But this was my second mother so I made my way over at the first opportunity for an unforgettable afternoon. Even at 94 years, Auntie Babs was in good spirits. We laughed a lot as we reminisced. In no time a table was spread with homemade cakes and tea. Right there I called my dentistry friend now practising in the UK and, with warm emotion, he thanked Auntie Babs for her support during those years of study.
More laughs and memories around the table laid and yet we all knew. This would probably be the last visit. Shortly afterwards Auntie Babs passed on. On receiving the announcement I experienced an immense sadness but also a deep gratitude. I had a second mother without whom it is quite possible I would not have been able to achieve a few things in my life and in turn be a father to many others. As I walked towards my car I stole a glance at the old garage and smiled as I imagined hearing the shuffling slippers of the other mother who sustained me.
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