My name is Maya. I am 17.

Last Saturday, Mum discovered that I had blocked her on WhatsApp.

She nearly died.

Not literally.

But African mothers can die several times before breakfast.

“YOU BLOCKED YOUR OWN MOTHER?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Because she had become unbearable.

If I posted a photo:

“Who is that boy standing behind you?”

If I was online at midnight:

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

If I didn’t reply within five minutes:

“I can see two blue ticks.”

Then came the voice notes.

Three minutes.

Six minutes.

Nine minutes.

Nobody under 25 should be required by law to listen to a nine-minute voice note.

So I blocked her.

Peace returned to the republic.

Until Saturday.

I was at Acacia Mall with my friends when my phone beeped.

MOBILE MONEY RECEIVED: 80,000.

From Mum.

Then an SMS:

Since I am blocked on WhatsApp, perhaps Mobile Money still works.

😂😂😂

My friends almost collapsed.

I called her.

She didn’t answer.

Now SHE was ignoring ME.

This woman was enjoying herself.

That evening, I found her watching television.

“Thank you for the money.”

She nodded.

Silence.

Then she said:

“Maya, I know I irritate you.”

Finally. Progress.

“But when you were eight, I knew your friends. I knew their parents. I knew where you played.

Now you carry an entire world in that phone.

People enter your bedroom without opening the door.

Some of them I will never meet.

And I am supposed to pretend I am not frightened?”

I had never thought about it like that.

I still told her the nine-minute voice notes had to stop.

She agreed.

We negotiated.

No interrogations about every photo.

No monitoring my online status.

No nine-minute sermons.

I would tell her where I was going, who I was with and roughly when I would return.

And if something went badly wrong?

I could call her.

No lecture first.

Help first.

Lecture tomorrow.

Later I told Uncle Rwamiti about our treaty.

He laughed.

“Excellent. Two governments have finally established diplomatic relations.”

Then he became unusually serious.

“Your mother will have to learn that protecting you is not the same as controlling you.

And you will have to learn that independence is not the same as disappearing.”

I rolled my eyes.

Uncle Rwamiti smiled.

He knew I had heard him.

Unfortunately, I had.

— Uncle Rwamiti
Making sense of change through ethical storytelling.
Dr Petero wamala,DBA