This weekend, all over the world, we celebrated our mothers and motherhood. As a man, I am sometimes baffled by how much bigger mothers’ day is than fathers’ day but that argument belongs to a different day. Like most of us, I too, am thinking of my mother—or to put it more appropriately, my mothers. I say mothers because aside from my biological mother, I have had a few other mothers who have been significant in my life. I believe that sometimes, women who have never had children of their own are outstanding mothers. Sometimes they make you wonder how providence determine who would have children and who would not. In this piece, I hope I can celebrate my mothers, all of the great mothers I know and indeed all mothers. Of course, there are bad mothers. Amongst these are those who take harmful illegal substances while pregnant or abuse their children. We all have bad stories about women maltreating their children or giving them bad counsel. Despite these exceptions, I say all mothers because even a bad mother deserves some gratitude from the child she conceived and carried to term. Come to think of it, I should appreciate mothers more than most because I never had a father of my own. Now, that is not to say that my paternity was ever in dispute—it was not. My mother, of blessed memory, was wonderful. Even though she never had a day of schooling, she was uncompromising in her commitment to the education of her children. She did everything she could, with the help of a generous government to educate all her children. She was truly, an “obaatan”. Whenever she cooked, she made sure every child around had enough to eat. I can still remember her “fufu na abenkwan”. Despite this generosity, she was a disciplinarian par excellence. Indeed, sometimes, even thinking of her makes me think instinctively of pain in my buttocks. In retrospect, while my mother, like all mothers, was sweet, she was stronger than sweet. I am sure that when they wrote, “spare a rod and spoil the child”, they had her in mind. She was the kind of mother who would discipline you before asking questions. I remember once, during my post-graduate training, a black American woman came to see me with her teenage son. The boy had an arrest record and when I started to admonish him, the mother offered a defense of his conviction. “Doctor, you know, my boy did not actually take part in the robbery; he was only the look-out and it was really unfair that they sent him to prison.” Without missing a beat, I replied, “Madam, my mom would have wupped my ass for just being in the neighbourhood while other boys were committing a crime.” I remember the first time I complained to her as a teenager about one of my friends. She listened patiently and asked, “Son, have you told your friend to his face about this?” “Well, no” I replied. “If you cannot tell him to his face, then keep quiet” she said. But she had help from my other mothers. My mother was a trader who used to travel quite a bit. Whenever she was away, she left my brother and me in the care of Madam Aminata, a Wangara woman who had no biological children of her own. She was wonderful. Even when my mother was around and I had one of my rare “last-born” “head sweetness” which led to a refusal to eat my mother’s food, she would step in with “Tuo Zaafi” and other delicacies! Indeed, sometimes, I looked forward to my occasional run-ins with my mother so that Madam Aminata would “boss” me to eat. Whenever I think of her, I am convinced that indeed some of the best mothers around are childless. My next really great mother would surprise a lot of my friends. She was, Miss B, my biology teacher in Secondary school and she got on my list for tough love. I remember that for quite some time, I just seemed to rub her the wrong way. Then one day, in form five, a couple of months before our “O” levels, right in the middle of a biology class, she started being philosophical. “Now, there are some of you who are wasting a lot of time trying to teach some girls who are not interested in learning. These girls want to just go to the market and be big market women and so do not waste your time on them. We expect a lot from some of you so do not waste time and end up disappointing us—Arthur!! Did you hear that?” That may have been one of the most embarrassing moments in my life but I took that advice to heart and did well enough to progress to sixth form. Later on she gave me a lot of valuable advice and encouragement. Today, she is a good friend. Then there was Maame Serwaa. It was 1983 and as NUGS President, I had been declared wanted by the PNDC regime, dead or alive. During that time, I and a few of my friends lived with Maame Serwah and her husband Nana Brefo Boateng as well as the Senavoes. Once, while we were hiding there, a member of the government actually came to visit and did not have a clue that we were there. Mind you, around that time, even relatives were afraid to be identified with me. But when finally arrangements had been completed for us to leave, she showed courage that was then rare even in men. “But Nana, why is Kwabena leaving? He can live here for years and no one would know”. She showed no anxiety at all about the fact if I were to be found under her roof, she would be in trouble. The next of my mothers was a Canadian Professor, Prof. Doane. She was always positive and encouraging without saying much. Then when I finally finished my undergraduate medical education and was leaving for my post-graduate training in the United States, I went to thank her and to say goodbye. When I told her that I had an offer to begin a Residency and was leaving the following week, the white-haired Professor’s reserve finally broke. “Come for a hug, son” she said. “I have been teaching for 25 years here and I have never met a student who has overcome bigger odds.” She gave me a hug. Then when I got up to leave, she uttered the sentence that got her on my list. “Son, you have done very well but do not let it go to your head. Stay humble.” When I turned at the door, she was wiping her face with her handkerchief. Those have been my mothers—except for one—my wife. While every woman thinks unfairly that her husband is, perhaps, one of her children, my wife gets on the list as a mother of my children. She is an ideal combination of sweetness and strength and I think my greatest gift to my children is probably their mother. I am sure that as you read this, you too are thinking of the mothers in your life. Find time to thank and celebrate them, not just on Mothers’ Day, but all year round. While we celebrate our mothers and motherhood though, there are some tough questions we must ask ourselves. First, if we respect our mothers so much, why is there so much domestic violence? How can we respect our mothers so much and yet beat our wives or companions? Second, why is it that all around the world, despite our universal reverence for our mothers, women have so little power and earn less for equal work? Third, if we think motherhood is so important, why have we not made childbirth and motherhood safer? Fourth, if we love our mothers and mothers to-be so much, why do we not help them with chores? Do we do these despite our adulation of our mothers because we are hypocrites? Of course, some have argued that women—our mothers—must take some of the blame for these defects because they brought us up. Whatever your answers to these questions, as you celebrate your mother or motherhood, resolve that you will do a little more to make the plight of women better. We cannot celebrate motherhood and be indifferent to the plight of women. Let us move forward—together.