Not My Mother’s Style

Parenting in Diaspora

It started in the kitchen.

Of course, it did. That’s where most of our wars are fought , next to the pot of ogbono, slippers on, hair bonnet barely holding on, one eye on the pounded yam and the other on whatever the children are whispering.

“Mum, can I just have pasta?” my son asked, poking his head into the pot like he owned the place. “I don’t like this slimy soup.”

Slimy? Ogbono? I gripped the wooden spoon like it was my last link to sanity. I turned slowly, fighting the urge to lecture. Fighting the ghost of my mother who would’ve slapped me into next week for saying such nonsense.

But I didn’t slap. I didn’t shout. I just blinked. Because this child, born in England, with his accent that flattens all the vowels, is not me. And I am not my mother. But sometimes, I wish I was. Because she made it look easy.

Between Two Worlds

Raising African children abroad is like carrying a calabash across a swimming pool. You're trying not to spill your culture while learning how to float in a system that doesn’t recognise the shape of your bowl or the contents it carries.

At home, I want my children to greet properly. To say “Good morning, mummy” with full chest, not this lazy “Hi Mum” they’ve picked up from school.

But outside, I hear them say “Please” and “Thank you” to everyone, like it’s automatic. They apologise even when they don’t mean it, just to avoid tension. Then they say things like “I need space.” Space ke? In this house where you have your own room? What space again are you looking for?

When I was ten, I was washing plates, making my bed and in boarding school hundreds of miles away from home (story for another day). At ten, my daughter asked me why we don’t have a cleaning lady anymore.

I said, “We do. Her name is you.”

She didn’t laugh.

The Day I Got It Wrong

Last year, at a family friend’s birthday, she rolled her eyes when I told her to help Auntie Obi carry the cooler. I dragged her to the side and said, “Don’t ever do that again. You want to disgrace me in public?”

I said it loud. Too loud. People heard. She looked at me with tears, but also with something else; distance. That night, she didn’t eat. She went straight to bed.

I sat in the living room pretending to watch TV, but I kept thinking, “Was that necessary?”

I remembered being shouted at in public. The shame. The way I learned to apologise even when I didn’t understand what I did wrong. The way I stopped talking in front of adults.

So I did something, something my parents never did. I knocked on her door and said, “I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m sorry.”

She looked shocked. But then she nodded.

That was the day I realised I can keep my culture and still be human.

What We Keep

Respect. But not the kind that silences. Not the one rooted in fear. The kind that teaches value. That says, “This person matters. You matter too.” Let them speak, but teach them when to listen. Let them question, but teach them how.

Language. Even if they reply in English, speak it. Teach them greetings that are more than words, teach them connection. Let them hear your voice switch. Let them carry your tongue, even if it’s mixed with theirs.

Names. Give them names that hold history. Names that don’t sound like they were invented in a cartoon studio. Let them know what their names mean. That Chiamaka, Kofi, Ọlámipọ̀si, Abdullahi are not a random collection of syllables, they are prayers, they are memories, they are stories.

Food. Let the smell of egusi sit in their clothes. Let them know what suya tastes like from your hand, not just from a pop-up shop in Shoreditch.

Stories and Proverbs. “Until the lion learns to write, the story will always glorify the hunter.” Let them know our stories were never just for fun, they carried lessons. Add these to bedtime, not just CBeebies and Ms Rachel.

Family Connection. Teach them that visiting relatives is not a chore. Teach them that family is about presence, not pressure. That checking in matters. That spending time together is part of our rhythm, not just a calendar event.

Cultural Rituals. Celebrate naming ceremonies, cook traditional meals, wear asoebi if you want. Let them know where they come from isn’t just in a passport, it’s in how we gather, honour, and remember.

Belief in Something Bigger. Whether it’s faith, community, ancestral values, or a sense of moral grounding, help them see that there is more to life than self. Let them experience belief as a way of being, not just a performance.

What We Must Drop

Smackings. Not because we're now soft, but because many of us are still healing from being hit more than we were held. Fear is not the same as obedience. Pain is not the same as discipline.

Public shame. That habit of correcting our children in front of strangers. Making jokes about their weight or skin or school performance “just for laughs.” It’s not funny. It never was. Humiliation is not a teaching tool.

Emotional silence. Our parents loved us. But they didn’t always show it. Let’s say “I love you.” Let’s ask “Are you okay?” and actually listen. “You’re fine” is not a replacement for comfort. Hold them. Sit with them. Don’t just tell them to “go and pray.” Walk with them.

Comparisons. “Look at your cousin.” “When I was your age...” No. When we were their age, we didn’t have to code-switch, battle identity, or explain our food to classmates. Their journey is not yours. Their cousin is not their competition. Their success is not your validation.

Conditional love. “If you get A, I’ll love you more.” “If you’re like your brother, I’ll be proud.” Let’s stop attaching love to achievement. They must know they are enough.

Respect as hierarchy. If respect only flows up and never down, it becomes fear. Say sorry when you're wrong. Listen when they speak.

Shutting down difference. Not every question is rebellion. Sometimes they are just trying to understand the world they’re growing up in. Create space for dialogue, not just discipline.

The Daily Dance

Some days I get it right. I speak calmly. I explain. I even do apologies. Other days, I want to call my child “useless” and call it a day.

But I’m learning. That parenting isn’t performance. It’s presence. That my child is not my clone. She is my continuation.

And yes, she calls me “strict.” She says I don’t let her do sleepovers or wear makeup to school. She says I’m sometimes overbearing. But last week, I heard her tell her friend, “My mum’s intense, but she loves hard. Like African mums do.”

That’s enough for me.

Let Them Carry Something

Let them carry more than accents and A* grades. Let them carry your voice. Your laughter. The way you dance when afrobeats comes on.

Let them carry pride in their names, even when no teacher can pronounce them. Let them carry joy in their food, even when classmates wrinkle their noses.

Let them carry memory. That on Sunday afternoons, you would call home and put it on speaker so they too could greet Grandma in Igbo, Twi, Swahili.

Let them carry your softness, not just your strength. Let them know that parenting is not power, it’s legacy.

Let them carry the beauty of being African, not just the burden of explaining it. Let them carry the richness of both worlds without shame. Let them know that they belong, even when they feel torn.

And when they grow, let them remember how you tried. How you shifted. How you stood in two worlds and built a home.

And they’ll cook ogbono. And call it soup, not slimy. And serve it proudly.

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Laugh if you must, cry if you need to, but keep parenting with heart. One honest story at a time.

With love, rice, and responsible parenting

- The African Parent