Mother, My Heart Beats
By Dr. Nafisat Makinde
Dedication:
To all mothers — seen and unseen — whose love keeps the world breathing.
Mother, My Heart Beats
Every breath we take began with another’s. Before we knew our names, before we saw the world, there was a woman whose heart beat for us — louder than pain, softer than pride. This story is for her.
The First Rhythm
Before a child ever cries, before it ever breathes, there is a sound — soft, steady, and sacred.
It is the heartbeat of a mother. That rhythm is life’s first language, the drum that teaches every human soul to trust, to hope, to love.
To say “Mother, my heart beats” is not poetry; it is truth. Because long after the umbilical cord is cut, another cord remains — unseen but eternal.
When the World Forgets Its Rhythm
Not long ago, a story from eastern Nigeria shook the conscience of a nation.
A young man tied his mother to a tree and flogged her — the same hands she once guided now rose against her.
The community did not stay silent. Youths who still knew the weight of a mother’s tears seized the boy, tied him to the same tree, and flogged him. One of them said, “It wasn’t revenge. It was correction — to flog the devil out.”
Their message was clear: whoever strikes his mother strikes at his own heartbeat.
Another tragedy came from Abuja. A 33-year-old man named Kazim beat his 60-year-old mother and elder sister because they could not give him money. A neighbor watching the horror whispered, “He forgot that when he was born, it was her blood that became his milk.”
How does the world keep breathing when sons begin to wound the womb that bore them?
A Scene That Silences Words
A week ago, I stood in one of the popular Garki Hospitals and witnessed love that humbles pride.
A two-month-old baby fought for air through a ventilator mask. There was not enough bed space inside, so the mother was moved into the corridor.
She sat among people on the waiting bench, one hand pressing the mask gently over her baby’s face, the other wiping sweat as the heat from the machine blew toward her. When she noticed me watching, she smiled with tired eyes and said, “I have not slept or eaten since last night.”
I smiled back to hide the lump in my throat. “That’s the pride of motherhood,” I replied.
She kept breathing so her child could live. That corridor became a cathedral, and I left with tears in my eyes.
A Daughter’s Cry
A young woman from Lagos was preparing for one of the proudest moments of her life — her Call to the Bar, the ceremony where Nigerian law graduates are formally admitted to practice as barristers after completing a year at the Law School.
She had studied Law for five years, survived the rigours of the Nigerian Law School, and was now just four days away from being called to the Bar — four days from seeing her years of hard work rewarded with the wig, the gown, and the title of Barrister-at-Law.
She came home to find her mother gravely ill — too weak to walk, crawling from room to room. One evening, as the mother rested in the parlor, she heard her daughter sobbing from afar. She dragged herself across the floor, calling gently, and finally found her in the restroom, crying into her phone:
“It hurts to see my mother like this. She has never celebrated anything with me. When I graduated from the university, she was facing serious challenges. At my convocation, she couldn’t come. Now that I’m finally about to be called to the Bar — the happiest day of my life — she is sick again. I can’t bear it. I can’t lose her.”
The mother said nothing. She simply watched, tears mixing with weakness, and whispered later that night, “If I can only live to see her called, that will be enough.”
That is motherhood — crawling through pain to reach a child’s cry; and that is daughterhood — feeling incomplete when the one who gave you life cannot stand beside you on your day of triumph.
The Silver Line
Between a mother and her child lies a silver thread no knife can cut. It carries pain and pride, fear and joy, loss and memory. When a child laughs, a mother’s heart dances; when a child suffers, her pulse falters.
The Qur’an says:
“His mother carried him in hardship and gave birth to him in hardship. Be grateful to Me and to your parents.” (Q 31:14)
And the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said three times, “Your mother,” before saying, “your father,” when asked who most deserves our kindness.
Every faith agrees: the heartbeat of a mother is humanity’s oldest prayer.
The Heartbeat of the World
Across nations and generations, that heartbeat sustains life quietly.
From factory lines to refugee tents, from crowded hospitals to rural markets, mothers everywhere keep the world alive.
UN Women estimates that women perform nearly 75 percent of the world’s unpaid care work — proof that love still runs the global economy in silence.
They may not sit in boardrooms or wear crowns, but without their unseen labour, no nation would rise and no heart would heal.
When the Heartbeat Is Silenced
Today, too many mothers sit alone — hungry, unvisited, unfed. Some children feed their pets better than the women who gave them life. Others send money but never time.
Yet hope remains. Every time a child bends to kiss a mother’s hand, the world heals a little.
Every “Thank you, Mom” keeps humanity alive.
If your mother is alive, call her. Visit her. Listen to her stories. Feed her not from duty but from love.
And if she has gone, do something kind in her name. Because her heartbeat — that sound that once kept you alive — still echoes inside you.
Reflection
Somewhere tonight, a mother is still awake, whispering prayers over a child who has already fallen asleep. Somewhere else, a child scrolls through messages, forgetting to call her.
If you are reading this, take a moment — call her. Say thank you.
Echo of the First Rhythm
Before you sleep tonight, place your hand on your chest.
Listen.
That soft, steady rhythm you hear is not yours alone — it began in her.
And somewhere, beneath all our noise, that same sacred sound still beats.
Mother, my heart beats. Mother, my heart beats.
Author’s Note:
This piece honours the silent resilience of women everywhere — mothers who birth nations, nurture generations, and heal the world through quiet, endless love.
Dr. Nafisat Makinde – Journalist and Writer
Sunday, October 12, 2025