You see ehn… if your mother is not like my own, just thank God in peace. Because once my mom decides to enter "War mode", even your ancestors will pity you. This story happened one hot Tuesday afternoon in our compound in Benin. I can never forget. So, I came back from work early that day. As I entered the compound, I noticed our landlord, a short, bald, pot-bellied man called Mr. Agbonifo, standing outside like a village chief. He had his usual useless singlet that he had been using since Jonathan was president, and he was just eyeing me up and down like someone who wants to borrow your destiny. I greeted him politely. “Good afternoon, sir.” He just hissed and said, “Na afternoon dey help bad pikin? Na so dem dey greet person?” Omo, I just bone. I no get strength. I climbed upstairs and entered the house. Next thing, I heard a loud argument downstairs. It was my mom’s voice. Now, let me give you a small background. My mom is not a regular mom. My mom is that Nigerian mother who can fight two police officers and still go to church that evening to lead prayer. She's strong like 7 Danfo drivers combined. Don’t let her wrapper and wig deceive you. Anyway, I rushed downstairs only to see my mom standing chest to chest with the landlord like WWE fighters. No weapon, just pure mouth and hand akimbo. Apparently, after I entered the house, Mr. Agbonifo went and told one of the neighbours that "No wonder the boy dey useless like this. The mama no train am well. She too dey do like person wey raise agbero." And unfortunately for him, that neighbour is what Yoruba people call “radio without battery.” She flew upstairs and told my mom immediately. BOOM! That was how all hell broke loose. My mom came downstairs like thunder. No slippers. Just wrapper and anger. “Oga Agbonifo! Wetin you talk?! Say I no train my pikin well? You dey mad?!” Landlord tried to form big man. “Madam, do not provoke me this afternoon. I talk my own.....” “Shut up there! You talk your own abi? Make I talk my own too na! Your only daughter don carry belle from backyard, born pikin for one mechanic wey no get house, yet you dey open your gutter mouth say I no train my pikin well?! You suppose dey thank God say na person like me still dey pay rent for this your goat-smelling house!” Landlord shouted, “Are you mad?!” That was the wrongest button to press. My mom flung her wrapper to one side like an action movie. “You go see craze today! Me?! Mad?! Me wey senior you with 6 years?! If no be say dem born you with groundnut oil inside your brain, you go open mouth dey talk to me anyhow?!” Before we knew it, compound people came out. My mom was bouncing like Mike Tyson, shouting insults that even Shakespeare cannot decode. “Na person like you dey do landlord? You wey never change that your boxers since January! See your singlet, e get map of Africa for armpit! You dey call my son useless? You wey your daughter dey breastfeed mechanic for inside Keke?” One old woman that lives downstairs whispered, “This fight sweet oh.” Someone tried to hold my mom. She shouted, “Leave me joor! If I no break this man head today, make NEPA bring light!” At that moment, Mr. Agbonifo ran inside and locked his door. My mom still stood outside shouting, “Na you run abi?! Next time you go measure words before you vomit nonsense! Agbonifo the disgraced!” I swear, even me I weak. That evening, my mom just came inside, wiped her sweat, and said, “Go bring me that chilled malt from the fridge. I don't win this round.” I brought it with fear and trembling. Moral lesson: Never insult a Nigerian woman’s child, especially when her wrapper is still tied tightly. Once that wrapper shifts small… Omo, you’re on your own. Morrison Chukwuemeka