MY MOTHER: THE SILENT ARCHITECT OF MY DREAMS
Every story I write began with her quiet strength.
My mother’s life is a quiet epic — full of grace, grit, sacrifice, and silent suffering wrapped in a love that speaks softly but endures fiercely. She bore life’s weight with unshakable patience, trading her own dreams for ours, never once asking for recognition.
She is — without even realizing it — the reason I became a filmmaker.
The Quiet Force
My late father served in the national defense force, and most days, my siblings and I grew up with his absence. It was my mother who filled that void — not with words, but with strength. She worked at the national radio station, juggling duty and motherhood at a time when “women empowerment” wasn’t even a phrase. Yet, she embodied it — quiet, determined, unstoppable.
She worked long hours, often coming home exhausted — but never empty-handed. Sometimes she’d bring me a Noddy book, sometimes a Tintin comic borrowed from a friend. One at a time. I’d read them with wonder, and when I was done, she’d bring the next. Those stories became my escape, my adventure, my first classroom of imagination.
The First Tool of My Craft
One day, she bought me a small drawing book — ten sheets, a deer printed on its back cover.
It wasn’t expensive, but for our family back then, it was the price of a meal. Still, she never hesitated. Every time my book filled up, she’d find a way to get me another. I knew how much that meant, so I drew carefully — tiny figures packed into every corner of a page to make it last.
That little book was the beginning of everything.
From Tintin to Asterix to Phantom, I started drawing my own comic panels. Without knowing it, I was storyboarding — shaping narratives, building worlds. My mother had given me the first tool of my craft. She had unknowingly set me on the path that would define my life.
The Source of My Protagonists
Now that I have a son, I finally see the magnitude of her strength. Raising one child is a journey. She raised eight — and raised us well.
We grew up disciplined, grounded, and kind — because she somehow managed to hold chaos together with grace.
Even today, she’s the heart of our family. The quiet force behind every one of us.
And no wonder — almost every screenplay I’ve ever written carries her shadow. My female protagonists, whether fierce or fragile, carry her spirit. They stand tall because she stood tall.
They endure because she endured.
Lizards and Crows
Of course, even heroes have weaknesses — and my mother’s only weakness, as far as I know, is lizards. One tiny lizard can turn this strong, fearless woman into a sprinter. I’ve seen her clear a room faster than any action sequence I’ve written.
And lately, she’s had a visitor — a crow that lands on her terrace railing every evening. She feeds it regularly, talking to it as if it understands every word. I joke that it’s Dad dropping by, keeping an eye on her and all of us.
Maybe it is.
Maybe love finds its way back — in the most unexpected wings.
The Story Behind Every Story
Today, as my siblings and I surround her, I realize — she didn’t just raise us; she built us.
Every dream I chase, every story I write, began with her small sacrifices and silent strength.
She is the story behind every story I have ever told.
And when I pause between those stories — in the stillness after the words, in the quiet corners of my thoughts — I often find her.
Sitting on her terrace as the day unwinds, sunlight brushing her silver hair. The crow perched nearby waiting for its share of rice.
And I feel time folding gently, the past and present meeting in quiet gratitude.
Maybe Dad really does visit her through that crow — to see the woman who once carried everything without complaint, who raised survivors disguised as children, who turned scarcity into strength and love into legacy.
Some stories are written on paper. Others are written on hearts. Hers is written on mine.
For my mother — my first story, my forever inspiration.
Happy 80th.
Leave a Reply