The first time I mentioned it was on a certain Sunday. We were heading to church and I was not too happy.
She had managed to guilt me into going and even wearing buba & iro complete with gele (traditional clothes from Western Nigeria)
But you are an adult you must be thinking, lets just say some people can guilt you into anything. (Love you Mum!)
Anyway I was bored and she had just yelled at me for taking pictures of a graveyard on our way. Every year, I launch a campaign to make my mum see the irony of death’s blade dulled by snow’s whiteness. I am yet to succeed.
My hands were restless and my head had started a throbbing dance.
So it only seemed right to raise the issue I had been mulling over.
“Mum, I said. I’m going to be an organ donor.”
We almost swerved into the graveyard. Walahi. She would have slapped me if her hands weren’t exercising iron control over the wheel.
“Don’t tell me that rubbish. Don’t say any nonsense this morning. A Sunday morning on the way to the house of God!?!
“Organ Donor!” She spat with the same eyes that once held colourful promises of a sound flogging whenever she found me up in our ant-lined guava tree in front of my childhood home.
+ A venomous hiss.
My inner tough girl gave it her last shot. “I don’t need your permission to donate my organs Mum, I will be dead by then and hopefully you…”
Her look reached into my mouth, grabbed my tongue and twisted it.
Perhaps we will finish the conversation someday.