By By Sulaimon Mojeed-Sanni
Dear Wuraola,
Each year, I pause not just to honour the day you were born, but to celebrate the light you bring into my life. This year, I find myself reflecting on a simple, everyday question that speaks volumes beyond its surface, a question we ask so casually not knowing the mental torture it brings: What shall we eat tonight?
Margaret Fuller once said, “A house is no home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body.” In our home, you’ve provided far more than meals. You’ve brought warmth, nurtured minds, fuelled dreams, and anchored souls.
The Yoruba say, “Adìẹ tí ó kú ṣì máa jẹ agbàdo”—a hen that survives will still eat corn. Since we came together, our lives have been shaped by resilience, responsibility, and reliance. We’ve faced moments that could have broken us, but instead, they shaped us. Human beings aren’t built to thrive alone; even cast on an island, one must lean on nature. For men, from the cradle to the grave, our lives are intricately tied to the women who nurture us as mothers, sisters, friends and wives. In you, I have found the one who holds all in one and our home all together.
Dear Wuraola, I know motherhood is the only job that pushes a person to the edge of exhaustion, yet still offers the purest form of joy. Despite the fatigue, the uncertainties, and the countless sacrifices, you’ve been the steady back we’ve all climbed upon; our prayer warrior who nudges us to smile through every storm while holding out for dawn’s calm.
Being a wife is demanding, being a mother is even more challenging, and balancing the roles of wife, sister, friend and mother can feel like a beautiful chaos. You find yourself caught between caring deeply for a bunch of lovable yet exasperating brats you can’t imagine life without. You fuss over our health, appearance, and well-being, pouring your heart into us while we remain blissfully oblivious. To us, you’re just the woman who worries too much and thinks too far ahead.
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Every day, I watch you take on the exhausting but thankless task of deciding what we will eat. Three times a day, four weeks a month, twelve months a year without a single day off, not even on holidays. This unpaid job of feeding a family may look routine, but it is one of the deepest acts of love. I came to understand the depth of the chaos that goes on in a mother’s head on a few occasions, I was to take care of the whole house when you were under the weather, it goes beyond saying that motherhood should be a paid job. And you do it effortlessly, weaving nourishment and care into every dish, into every morning routine.
When it comes to food choices, I’m probably the greatest nightmare, I don’t have favourite dishes or foods I detest. By nature, I’m not a big eater, nor am I particular about what’s on the table. For the past ten years, my stance has been the same; just put something on the table, and I’ll eat it. While some wives would love the chance to spoil their husbands with their favourite meals, mine is stuck with a guy who is as indifferent to food as a rock. And if I’m a challenge in that regard, the kids have definitely upped the ante, except for our little teddy bear, whose entire culinary universe revolves around bread and tea. Anything else is practically a punishment. Every day, we alter your choices for us without knowing how hard it took to even make those decisions. The four of us in particular have been constant pain to you, just because you cared for us too much, oftentimes forgetting to take care of yourself. We are sincerely sorry for the troubles, unfortunately, I doubt if we are willing to stop.
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Dear MJofLife, I know my indifference may sometimes look like disregard. But it’s not that I don’t enjoy your cooking, I’ve just grown so used to your unwavering consistency that I forgot to show appreciation. Yet when I pause, I see you. Even though I don’t eat much outside our home, every meal I eat outside is by default compared to yours and I must confess none have been better than yours. Considering your modest roots from Itamuto in Ikorodu, it’s incredible how you’ve become a culinary powerhouse. You don’t just put a dish forward, you cook with heart, soul and endless care. No restaurant could ever serve what you bring to our table each day.
Writing this letter made me think about how language, like life, changes with perspective. When a poor man says, “What shall we eat tonight?” it emerges from lack and helplessness. But when a man of means utters the same phrase, it comes from a place of abundance, of options, and of ego. Economists call this the difference between wants and needs. And unless we want to be men of ingratitude, we must acknowledge how far we’ve come, from eating out of necessity to choosing out of plenty. It’s not just about food; it’s about grace. I can only hope and pray for abundance for many who lack what to eat, people suffering under excruciating human-instigated wars, those battling natural disasters that have taken daily meals off their tables.
They say, “The past is never where you think you left it,” and they are right. I don’t look back on our early days with nostalgia for the struggle, but with gratitude for how far we’ve come. We are no longer who we were, and yet, we are still not who we were meant to be. Today’s letter is to celebrate you; your resilience, your selflessness, your commitment to lifting others, and your beautiful heart.
Every man is said to have a heaven made for him. If heaven exists on earth, then Mujidah, you are mine. You are my fire, my anchor, my calm in a world that often spins out of control.
Today, I wish you more mornings filled with joy, peace, and the laughter you so freely give others. Wura mi, I love you endlessly, and I assure you, Adesola, Tiwalade, and Adebola do too.
Happy Birthday, MJofLife, Iya Oloja General. May this year bring you closer to every quiet dream you’ve tucked behind your tireless giving.
With all my heart,
‘Lade
