I had just finished leading the night prayers. There was no light, but the lamp’s dim glow was enough to lead everyone to their rooms. In the stillness of the night, while still in the living room, I heard a commotion outside. With excitement, I adjusted myself on the chair. I was a bit glad that another drama was about to unfold in my street, and I would have the first-hand gist.
Well, I did have the first-hand gist, but my excitement faded afterwards. It wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood chaos I had hoped.
I don’t think I want to refer to her as my neighbour. The woman across my house was shouting really loud about whatever her daughter might have done. Her voice, filled with rage, echoed so loud that I thought she used a megaphone. I’m sure the whole neighbourhood would have heard her.
She wasn’t just shouting, she was cursing. Those curses were heavy and precise. Each word struck like a hammer hitting a nail. Her voice echoed so loudly that I felt pity for the girl.
No one intervened. Each neighbour remained in their house, probably sleeping or thinking what I had in my thoughts: Are you a mother? What could your daughter have done to deserve such life-altering words?
Yoruba culture does not tolerate cursing, especially if it’s from a Mother to her child. It’s believed that parents could influence the destinies of their children with words. A big influence like this is played by the mother, owing to the fact that she birthed the child.
After everything died down, I went to my room and reflected on what just happened. I said to myself that the girl must be spiritually sound, or get a seasoned Pastor to break those curses, because they were just too much.
At one time, I had to plead “The blood of Jesus” just to keep myself safe from those curses since I heard them. Yeah, Yoruba superstitions, but better to be safe than sorry.
What could the girl have done to deserve such heavy words? Would she grow up believing that every challenge and failed attempt she encounters might be because her mom cursed her? Would she grow up hating her mom? Would she grow up still hearing the loud voice of her mother cursing her in the dead of night? Would she grow to also reflect this trauma on her children? Worse, would she grow to become what her mom declared?
I hope not. I pray that God shows her mercy.
Then I thought of the mother.
What could have made the mother curse her daughter? Was she frustrated, angry or fed up and could no longer bear it? Were there no better ways to address whatever might have happened? Or was she just a bad parent? What if she herself was raised with curses? What if that is the only language that she knows?
If you haven’t healed from your wounds and trauma, if you lack the patience, wisdom, and emotional control that parenting requires, maybe your next action shouldn’t be parenting, but healing. Parenting demands more than provision; it demands stability, restraint, and intentional love. Before bringing a child into the world, perhaps we must first confront the broken parts of ourselves. Society does not just need more children; it needs responsible adults who will raise responsible children in return.
I understand that parenting is difficult and that children can be quite foolish and irresponsible. However, as parents, try as much as possible to raise your children the right way. Your words should guide and not break them. Your actions and reactions should correct and not destroy them. You’re to nurture them. If they grow to be responsible, great. If not, despite your positive efforts, at least you know you tried your best. You led them on the right path, but they made their choices and carved their future.
Now there goes a young girl, probably feeling burdened by her mother. A young girl who might be desperately waiting for when she’d leave home and never return. A young girl probably feeling hatred towards her mother. A young girl who I pray heals and becomes a better woman than her Mother.
Where’s the dad? I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. I know nothing about him.
That night, the street eventually grew quiet again. The shouting stopped. The curses faded into the dark. But silence does not always mean peace. The lamp was now dimmer, but still lit the room. I wondered how different that girl’s life would be if her mother’s words carried light instead of weight, if anger paused long enough for love to speak first.
I may never know what the girl did, but I hope she grows beyond that night. I hope she learns that the anger spoken over her does not define her destiny. I hope she becomes the kind of woman who speaks life, even when life has spoken harshly to her.
And maybe, just maybe, that is how trauma ends. Not by shouting louder, but by choosing to become light.
