Mary Mba (Ph.D.)
She walked alone,
my mother—
first girl in Ezialayi
to sit in a classroom
meant only for boys.
She wrote her name
on chalkboards of resistance,
etched it into history
with every lesson she taught
as a teacher,
as a principal,
as a mother.
She taught me
to speak softly
but walk boldly.
To read by lantern light,
to lead from the margins,
to wear my worth
like a second skin.
And I—
I carried her books in my blood,
her courage in my bones.
As I studied, birthed, worked,
nursed babies between classes,
and stitched dreams together
with whatever thread I could find.
You watched me,
my daughter,
small hands in my robe,
head high in meetings,
feet tapping under tables,
learning early that women
do not wait for permission
to rise.
And now it is you—
hooded in honor,
garlanded in grace,
degrees blooming
in both hands.
A granddaughter.
A daughter.
A rising sun.
This is not just a graduation.
It is a legacy fulfilled.
A lineage of learning.
A full circle closed—
only to begin again.