Mayok Media

Category: Family

  • My Ethiopian Brother

    (For Abera)

    He came quietly,

    not like thunder

    but like spring rain.

    One moment we were strangers

    at the African Student Association meeting,

    the next—

    he was on the floor

    building towers of blocks

    with my children,

    laughing like he’d known them forever.

    He never asked if I needed help.

    He simply showed up.

    When the injury struck,

    and word spread like wind through our small community,

    Abera was there.

    Trash bins emptied.

    Toys sorted into corners.

    Tiny socks folded by a pair of hands

    too young to carry the weight he chose to lift.

    He swept not just my floors,

    but the sorrow gathering in my heart.

    He played with the children

    like they were sacred,

    never an inconvenience.

    He called me Big Sister,

    and I trusted him with the title.

    Because he earned it.

    On the day I delivered,

    he became the village.

    Took the children to school,

    dressed them in joy for picture day,

    brought them to the hospital

    to meet their baby brother

    as if ushering in royalty.

    Even after healing,

    he stayed—

    a constant presence

    until graduation carried him

    back to Ethiopia.

    Now, he’s a doctor—

    a healer in name

    as he always was in spirit.

    And though an ocean stretches between us,

    I tell his story like scripture

    to every Ethiopian student I meet.

    I say,

    “There was once a young man named Abera,

    whose kindness held my house together

    when I could not.”

    And they smile,

    because they recognize his name—

    and somehow,

    his spirit, too.

  • Nne Ọha (Mother of Many)

    (For my sister-in-law, my sister by choice)

    They wonder if it’s her
    who shares my blood
    instead of my brother.

    And I smile,
    because they aren’t wrong.

    We met
    when she was just a girl
    falling into love with my brother—
    young, soft-spoken,
    eyes full of promise.

    I opened my door to her,
    not knowing I was also opening my heart
    to a forever kind of sister.

    We’ve never quarreled.
    Not once.
    Because we love with awareness—
    with deep respect,
    gentle honesty,
    and the kind of peace
    that needs no proof.

    When my brother says,
    “Go to her,”
    she never asks,
    “Why?”
    She simply packs her bag,
    boards the plane,
    and steps into my chaos
    like she belongs there.

    Because she does.

    My children call her aunty,
    but what they mean is home.

    She’s braided their joy
    into everyday moments—
    read bedtime stories,
    kissed bruised foreheads,
    taken them trick-or-treating
    while I scribbled chapters
    that would shape our future.

    And when she gave birth,
    I was there—
    not as guest,
    not as friend,
    but as the one who held her hand
    and held her child
    like he was mine too
    because he is

    We’ve danced in hospital waiting rooms,
    watched over my brother as he healed,
    shared kitchens,
    shared laughter,
    shared purpose.

    She keeps me tethered
    to the taste of Nigeria—
    soup steaming in warm bowls,
    stories from home pouring like palm wine
    into this new life of mine.

    She is sweetness wrapped in strength,
    kindness anchored in quiet resolve.

    She is not just a sister-in-law.
    She is Nne Ọha—
    mother of many,
    beloved by all,
    the woman whose heart
    has made my journey
    infinitely lighter.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

  • My Brother, My Fortress

    (For my brother)

    He is just three years older,
    but somehow
    he’s always felt like the one
    who walked ahead—
    clearing the path,
    watching my back,
    pulling me up when I stumbled
    and pushing me forward when I forgot my worth.

    He is my brother,
    but also
    my father,
    my counselor,
    my reminder that love
    can be tough,
    and still deeply tender.

    There were things I couldn’t tell him.
    Not at first.
    Not the bruises on my soul,
    not the silence in my home,
    not the way I swallowed my pain
    to keep a marriage breathing.

    But when the threat came—
    when my life was no longer a metaphor
    for suffering,
    but truly at risk—
    I told him.

    He called.
    He asked.
    He listened.
    And when the truth dropped like stone,
    he didn’t flinch.

    He didn’t say: Be strong.
    He said: You’re not doing this alone anymore.

    When I was finishing my dissertation,
    and custody papers arrived like another attack,
    he moved mountains—
    sent his wife to my side,
    to hold the children,
    so I could hold the pen
    that would write me into freedom.

    He is oceans away,
    but always right here—
    in every decision,
    every brave step,
    every breath of hope
    I dare to take.

    And even now,
    when things get tight,
    when bills feel louder than prayers,
    he sends help—
    quiet, consistent, unasked.

    He has never failed me.

    My brother.
    My fortress.
    My friend.
    A man who makes being a man
    a thing of beauty.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)