Becoming a Mother

Did you guys know that I am a mother?

No, you didn’t miss an unplanned pregnancy and birth of my first child, and I am still single; nonetheless, I wear a bracelet on my wrist every day bearing the colors and design of the DRC flag and red beading proclaiming “Mother Dear.”

The story behind the bracelet starts when I was in Kenya with my Mesa Global teammates at the beginning of 2025, evacuated from DRC due to the unstable situation. The first week after I joined my teammates in Nairobi, we all went to a local church together. One of my teammates, Kyla, only seven years younger than me, was introducing me to some of her friends at the church. At one point as I am talking to someone else, I overhear her saying to someone, “Uhhhh…no, that’s my friend, Jaimie!” Hearing my name, I joined the conversation, then we all went inside to worship together. Later that day, Kyla told me, “Remember that guy I introduced you to right before service started? Well, he first asked me if you were my mother!!” I gasped at the audacity and rushed to check my wrinkles and search for any gray hairs, but then I quickly realized how hilarious and ridiculous the situation was and began to laugh and tell the rest of my team the story. My team leader’s teenage sons immediately started referring to me as “Mother Dear” and at team gatherings, it was entirely possible for one of the kids to be calling for me when they shouted “Mom!” At a team retreat on the Kenyan coast, my team leaders concluded the retreat by surprising us all with matching team bracelets, inscribed with either our legal given names or our nicknames… guess which one I got?

However, as I have reflected on the unlikely nickname, I have realized deeper meaning behind it. When I first moved to Congo over 2 years ago, I was told that the respected French title “Maman” meaning “mother” is reserved for a woman once she is married and starts having children (which typically happens as soon as possible after the wedding in Congolese culture). Young, unmarried women are not viewed as full adults until they are married: they are still essentially children. In my first few months in eastern Congo, I experienced this as people could hardly believe I was not married yet, and my most common nickname was “mzungu,” a Swahili word normally translated to “white person.” As I acclimated to life in Congo and made my way around my small town, there were incessant cries of “mzungu, mzungu!” When I walked the streets, the excited, almost frantic shrieks of children shouting “mzungu” followed me around town, including from the primary school right next to my house. I mostly became accustomed to the address, but it always carried a sense of “otherness” to me and seemed inherently attached to colonizers and oppressors of the Congolese people. Although, as time went on, small shifts began to occur. My neighborhood became used to my pale and surprising face, and I was greeted with a gentle smile rather than a shout. On campus at the university, the staff and students learned my name, and I would hear animated calls of “Ms. Jaimie, Teacher Jaimie, Mentor Jaimie, Pastor Jaimie” and so forth. Then, as I developed deeper relationships with several students, I started getting texts and calls addressing me as “Mom.” At one point, when one of my beloved students heard that I was going on a trip to meet up with my parents in South Africa, he came bearing gifts for me to deliver to his “grandparents.” Eventually, as I walked around town, it was just as likely to hear someone addressing me respectfully as “Maman” as to hear the shout of “mzungu.”

After two years in Beni, my contract at the university came to an end, and I made the gut-wrenching decision to not sign another contract, even though I will continue to reside in eastern Congo. Once again, I packed up a home with all my worldly goods and left it for the next tenant. On my last morning as a resident of Beni, as I was getting into the taxi to begin my journey out of town, my eyes filled with tears after some difficult goodbyes, I heard a soft voice nearby. “Maman,” came the gentle exclamation from young voices. Through the chain fence, I saw the happy faces of children at the school next door, waiting in the yard for their classes to begin. As we made eye contact, they all broke into smiles and again called, “Maman!” My heart swelled with the feeling of being accepted, known, and welcomed into the culture I have come to love and call a home for myself.