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| Mama in the misty blue mountains faraway from the coast. Photo: Author in WhatsApp |
𝑩𝒚: 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒄𝒂 𝑲𝒖𝒌𝒖| (edited only for good English)
MOTHER'S LOVE - This is the sad story of Meri Nambis being married into highlands of Papua New Guinea, and although humiliated by her husband and his family, she bore the pain and raised her kids alone when her husband remarry wives. She sent her kids to school alone and at last she passes on up in the misty mountains of Mt. Giluwe.
My mother was always called a "meri nambis" by my people ever since I was old enough to remember. Growing up, I started noticing how different she was from my Aunties and Grandma. She had longer hair, was slimmer and was more fragile, I guess.
I started realising that unlike all the other women who had married into our "Haus line" she was the only one who seemed to have no relatives nearby. It was only when I was in Grade 5, that I understood that her family were far away in a place called Port Moresby.
You see, she was still in school when dad married her and stole her away to his village. She was really Beautiful, and i was always so proud of her because she had the longest hair and was the best cook in the village. There were times the village leaders or the church leaders would come asking her to cook during big gatherings at the village or at the Church and besides she was the only women who could speak the white mans language in the village so the Catholic French Priest would always greet us and talk with mum. In those moments, I remember I would be filled with pride that mama could speak their language.
Mama and Papa had five kids, three girls and two boys but l was Mama's favourite and her best friend. I was her first born son. Years came and went, dad's business grow and soon he stopped coming home. We'd sit in the Kunai house, around the fire and wait for him, me and mama. I'd see the pain in her eyes but she'd just smile and tell me dad was probably really busy. A month later, we heard, dad had married a women from the neighboring village, who had a well connected family in the area.
But mama just stayed, she made Kaukau gardens with the other women in the village and would sell them on the roadside to buy our oil and salt or occasionally our school stuff despite dad been a business man because it seemed like papa had forgotten us.
A couple of months later, my dad's sister came to the house and told us that Dads New wife had given birth to a son. I saw the pain in Mama's eyes but she smiled at me and said hurry let's go meet your new brother. So we went to the hospital, and there he was, an ugly looking baby laying in that other woman's arms. Mama just went and took the baby from her and welcomed her to our home where she became our second mama. Soon after dad came back home too.
A few months later, he built two new houses, one for mama and one for the other woman. Soon things were normal again despite the fact that we now had two mothers and a new younger brother. But then things started changing. The more Dad's Business grew, he became a leader and was well respected. And as a leader, he would kill pigs and make feasts for almost every little thing.
Everytime dad hosted a feast, mama and i would just stand on the side, while dads second wife and her family would bring pigs to support him. Soon papa's family started rejecting mama coz she could not support papa with pigs, she had no uncles or brothers nearby to come and support her. I could see the pain in her eyes during those times but she'd just smile.
After that papa stopped giving us money, he stopped coming to our house. Everytime, his second Wife and his sisters would accuse mama of using marila to lure him. Sometimes they would gang up and beat mama. After several incidents, papa stopped coming to us.
He became a drunkard and a womanizer marrying three other women. Everytime, they would fight, the second wife and the other three, mama would just watch and walk away.
She had no family there, but she'd make gardens and sell the produce, she washed the local French Priest clothes and cleaned his house, she sewed dresses for little girls and sold ice block at my school. Every day of A Meri Nambis' Unwavering Love
From my earliest memories, whispers of "meri nambis" followed my mother. Compared to the other women in our village, she was different. Taller and slender, with hair flowing down her back, she seemed like a delicate bird amongst sturdy crows. Unlike the other women who had married into our clan, she had no family nearby. It wasn't until Grade 5 that I understood why. She was still a girl when my father took her away from her home in faraway Port Moresby, a place she spoke of with a yearning in her voice.
My mother was beautiful, the best cook in the village, and the only one who spoke English. The village priest, a French Catholic, would often greet her and converse in her language, filling me with a strange sense of pride. Despite my father's growing business, money seemed scarce in our kunai house. Mother diligently tended her kaukau gardens, selling them to buy cooking essentials and school supplies for us, her five children – three girls and two boys. I, the eldest son, held a special place in her heart.
As the years passed, Father's business flourished, and he became increasingly distant. We'd sit around the fire, waiting, but only silence answered. Then came news that shattered our fragile world: Father had married again, a woman from a well-connected family in a neighboring village.
Grief clouded my mother's eyes, but a forced smile played on her lips. She joined the other women in welcoming this new wife, who quickly became our "second mother." Soon after, Father returned, and construction boomed. Two new houses materialized – one for us, one for the new family. Life resumed a semblance of normalcy, albeit with two mothers and a new brother.
However, as Father's wealth and status grew, cracks began to show. His polygamy brought feasts and prestige, but also accusations from his side of the family. Mother, lacking the support network of pigs and uncles, became the target of their scorn. She bore it silently, her smile a constant mask.
The abuse escalated. Father stopped providing for us, withdrawing further into the arms of his new family. Accusations of witchcraft flew, followed by beatings. Father became a shadow, a man consumed by alcohol and fleeting relationships. Mother, however, remained a pillar of strength. She persevered, working tirelessly – tending gardens, washing clothes for the priest, sewing dresses, and even selling ice blocks at my school. Every penny went towards ensuring we had food, clothes, and a chance at education.
Each night, she'd paint pictures of her childhood home – a place with a dark blue sea and white sandy beaches. It became our secret paradise, a destination fueled by her constant reminder: "Go to school, so one day you can buy my ticket home."
As daughters, my sisters were eventually taken in by our uncles, who saw their marriageable potential. This left just Mother, me, my younger brother, and youngest sister. My brother dropped out of school after Grade 10, the same year I was accepted into the prestigious University of Technology. Together, we pooled our resources to pay my fees. I endured the hardships of being a "Somalia" – a student with no room or meal card, sleeping in lecture halls and facing hunger pangs. But Mother's unwavering support kept me going.
During my fourth year, my brother moved to Lae, selling betelnuts to buy me food. We eventually rented a small room, a shared struggle that solidified our bond. Occasionally, money would trickle in from an uncle or even Mother, who had somehow found a way to contribute despite being abandoned by Father.
Finally, graduation day arrived. The sight of my father, beaming with pride alongside his latest wife, filled me with a mixture of anger and resentment. Yet, ingrained respect for him kept me silent. As I received my Chancellor's award, he treated us to a celebratory feast, a hollow gesture that did little to mend the gaping hole in my heart.
The next day, I was offered a job in Port Moresby. Father, ever the self-centered figure, whisked me away without a single thought for Mother, who had sacrificed everything for my success. Years passed, filled with regular money transfers to support her and my brother. Every time I offered to buy her a plane ticket home, she'd say, "Wait, the girls haven't left the nest yet."
One day, a call from the priest shattered my world. Mother had collapsed, and time was running out. The years of isolation had taken their toll. Cancer had ravaged her body, a silent battle she had fought alone.
Racing against time, I reached Lae and drove through the night, a desperate hope clinging to my heart. As dawn broke, bathing Mount Giluwe in a soft light, I reached our village. Inside, I found Mother lying
The last two years, while I was working in Port Moresby, Mum had been battling cancer. She never told us, never let me or my brother know. I flew up to Lae, and with my younger brother by my side, we drove through the night. As dawn began to break, casting a soft light on Mount Giluwe, we reached our village. Inside, I found Mama lying beside the dying embers of the fire. She was so thin and frail, I barely recognized her. Picking her up gently, just as she used to hold me, I saw the pain etched on her face, yet a faint smile flickered on her lips.
One last time, she spoke of her childhood home, a place with a dark blue sea and white sand beaches. Tears streamed down my face as I asked, "Why didn't you come when I offered to buy you a ticket? Why didn't you go home and see your people? All those years, when Papa brought new wives home, why didn't you leave?"
As the first rays of the sun began to pierce the horizon, Papa rushed in. He tried to take Mama from me, but I held her close, a fierce protectiveness burning in my heart. I was ready to defy tradition, to fight him for the woman who had sacrificed everything for us. He saw the defiance in my eyes and took a step back.
Then, Mama's voice, raspy but strong, filled the room. We held her, my brother and I, as she whispered her final words. "When you were young," she said, "I did try to leave. I went as far as Goroka, but I couldn't get on the plane. I couldn't leave you behind. There were many times I considered leaving, but all five of you needed me."
Her voice wavered, but her spirit remained unbroken. "Though my heart ached, and I was alone with no family, I couldn't abandon my children. Your father cheated on me, he beat me, and brought more women into our marriage, but I never stopped being a mother. I have no regrets. Because I raised all of you, and now I can go in peace knowing you'll be alright. Love your papa, love your stepmothers, and remember their children are your siblings too."
By then, I was sobbing uncontrollably. A wave of despair washed over me as I desperately tried to transfer my own life force into hers. But as the mist slowly cleared with the rising sun, Mama, my beautiful Mama, the "meri nambis," took her last breath and left for the heavens.
We buried her in our village, surrounded by the vibrant wildflowers. Every year, when I visit her grave, I bring a bottle of sand from the coast, a token of the sea she longed to see. She left her dream of the dark blue waves and white sand beaches, choosing to raise us in the cold embrace of the mountains. I am who I am today because of a "meri nambis" who chose to stay.
Today, Jeffrey and his wife have dedicated themselves to helping women like my mother. They have repatriated nearly twelve "meri nambis" who were trapped in violent, polygamous marriages, rescuing them and bringing them back to their home provinces. Humble and unassuming, Jeffrey and his wife have carried out this important work quietly, shunning media coverage.
Jeff's youngest sister is now a nurse, while his brother runs a successful business in Lae, employing over 200 Papua New Guineans. His two older sisters are happily married and raising families of their own, both residing in the village. Jeff's father passed away two years after his mother and is buried beside her in their village, nestled amongst the blue, misty mountains.
Word Translation
2. NAMBIS (Coastal/Coast)
3.HAUS-LAIN (Village)
4.KAUKAU (Potatoes)
5. KUNAI (Grass for Weeping roofs and Walls)
