And somehow, they kept surviving things they never named.
You know the kind of pain I’m talking about.
The one she brushed off while pounding yam.
The one she carried in her chest like an extra load.
The one that made her wince slightly when she lifted the bucket but still went on like nothing happened.
That pain that stayed.
Changed shape.
Shifted quietly into something heavier.
Still, she said nothing.
Because our mothers didn’t rush to hospitals. They weren’t raised like that.
They were raised on hot water, Robb, and Psalm 91.
They were taught that illness is a test. That suffering, when handled well, is noble.
So when the lump came if it came she laid hands on it.
And said, “God forbid.”
She Had Things to Do
She didn’t have time to fall sick.
Not with three kids still in school.
Not with her boss threatening to sack her if she missed one more day.
Not when the person she relied on to help her… was her.
And even if she wanted to go for a scan,
Where? With what money?
Which clinic won’t look at her like she’s begging?
So instead, she drank warm Lipton,
Wrapped herself in her Ankara,
And added “divine healing” to her next all-night prayer request.
The Silence is Loud
Some of them told no one.
Not because they didn’t trust us
But because they didn’t want to burden us.
Some said, “It’s nothing.”
Others said, “Let me just manage.”
And the rest? They simply smiled and kept showing up.
Until one day, they couldn’t.
And by the time we noticed something was off
Her weight, her laughter, the light in her eyes
It was already too late.
And the doctor said, “If only she had come earlier.”
But Can We Blame Them?
This isn’t about shaming.
It’s about seeing clearly.
They didn’t have access.
They didn’t have knowledge.
And truthfully, they didn’t have permission to be vulnerable.
Our mothers were strong by default,
Not by design.
They carried the family and the shame,
the cooking and the cough,
the silent lump and the loud expectations.
And we? We watched them survive.
We watched them pray.
And many of us grew up thinking that pain was just part of the package.
But Maybe, It Ends With Us
Now we live in places with walk-in clinics.
Now we understand the power of early detection.
Now we have platforms, tools, communities.
But too many of us are still repeating their silence.
We don’t want to “overreact.”
We don’t want the results.
We don’t want the disruption.
But if there’s anything our mothers would want for us, it’s this:
Catch it early. Live longer. Speak up. Choose rest.
Not because you’re weak.
But because you’re wise.
This month don’t just wear pink.
Call your mum.
Book that appointment.
Talk to your friend.
Ask the hard question.
Hold your breast not just in fear, but in knowledge.
Because the women who raised us didn’t have these chances.
But we do.
Let’s not waste them. 📣 Did someone you love carry their pain in silence? What did it teach you and what will you do differently?
Join the conversation using #EgogoRemembers or drop a comment below.
