A Black Mother (Other-mothering)
I slipped and dislocated my ankle.
And from the moment it happened till the moment I got in the Ambulance, approximately a hundred people walked past me. Not one stopped to help. Not other commuters, not staff members at the station, not passerby's, not white men or even the black guy at the emirates stand. Not one person took a moment to ask "are you ok?" Until a black mother came on the scene.
"Let me help you" she said, I nodded in anguish tears streaming down my face, she tried to lift me up and carry me out of the cold into a warmer space, but I couldn't move. So she stayed with me while I spoke to 111. Another black queen with her beautiful locks wrapped up in a turban stepped in, wrapped a blanket around me and rubbed my back. "Are you pregnant?" she asks, no I responded.
At this point the emergency services had decided my case wasn't urgent enough, I had to wait for an ambulance that could take between two hours to infinity. I was ordered not to move, eat or drink anything until the paramedics arrived. These women stepped in and demanded I be seen to ASAP.
A few moments before, my mum suddenly felt the urge to talk to me and found out what happened. And so a conversation ensued between these three black queens about how to best help me.
Perfect strangers only connected through my pain and a mothers love.
This was no ordinary interaction, many wouldn't even realise what was happening in that moment, this connection between black women that has been there since the beginning of time.
A black mother you never met will be your mother for a moment, and though they're all different, they share a profound necessity to protect one another in the face of danger.
They have the same eyes that say I may not know your mother, but I can reach her. To each woman I wasn't a commuter or a patient, I was a daughter she had yet met.
This vicarious love is an old family recipe passed down from generation to generation, from one black mother to another. Each adding a pinch of compassion, nurture and discipline.
This is that it takes a village to raise child, this that you mother isn't here but I got you, this that not on my watch. This that we stick together, we already been shattered apart enough. Something heavy has been passed down to black mothers, call it a generational blessing, or burden, faithful family tree branches, waving and whispering keep them safe God, in prayer for you.
You realise that mama can't be everywhere you're at, but there's an army of her everywhere. All day. All night.
So shout out to all black mothers and mother figures that helped raise me, even if was only for a few seconds.