If You Can’t Let Go of It, Don’t Give It.
My mum was a hustler.
She grew up on the streets of Lagos, Nigeria.
Growing up, she worked as a house help, a dishwasher, a trader, and a messenger.
In between all of these, she learned how to sew clothes.
All of which explains why she’s kind, loving, and has a drum-full of philosophies she’d reach out to when speaking.
My mum and I didn’t share mother-son moments until I was 8.
We had just moved to Abuja. She had no friends and no clients, she was forced to park her sewing machine in one corner of the house.
And because there were so many mouths to feed, she couldn’t park herself.
So she hit the streets.
She imported kola nuts from Osun state down to Abuja and sold them in a small spot she got in the market.
The spot was furnished with a piece of rusted zinc that was raised and supported by four pieces of tiny wood rooted to the ground.
That was the typical setting.
Momma took me along to the market.
I was 8.
I watched her get up every morning to prepare for the market in silence.
I watched her take my hands in hers as we walked to the market in silence.
I watched her sit in her spot waiting for 50-year-old men to come and buy kola nuts.
I watched her chew from the food flask she’d brought with her to the market.
I watched how she’d occasionally force a smile on people who bought from her.
All these watching in silence translated into deep love. More love than a boy ever knows to give.
While I’m not nearly as tough as she was, I took every bit of the love she bore.
I could tear my world apart to build someone else’s.
Although she was happy her son gives 100% all the time to both friends and strangers, she had seen so much of the world to understand that if you have too good a heart, the world would come after you.
In an attempt to protect her boy, she would tell me,
If you can’t let go of it, don’t give it.
Last night we were on the phone
After a long conversation that was mostly advice and prayer, she sighed and said:
Abbas, If you can’t let go of it, don’t give it.
I smiled.
It reminded me of 12, 15, 20 year old me.
But I’m a man now.
I know when to give and when not to. Whether I can let go or not.
