The Queen’s English and My Mother’s Mouth

When Mama landed at Heathrow, she wore her best gele like it was armour. “We are here to conquer,” she declared, dragging two suitcases, three pots, and a bag of dried fish that customs didn’t want to touch.

The customs officer unzipped her bag, saw the glistening fish, and recoiled like he’d just spotted a ghost in a horror film.
“M’am, are you aware this is… food?”
Mama smiled sweetly, “Of course. It’s for soup.”
He glanced at me, perhaps hoping for an interpreter. I shrugged. He waved her through without further inspection. Victory, round one.

 

The Weather War

Mama’s first battle was with British weather. In Lagos, the sun clocked in on time, with full power. Here, the sky seemed to have depression.

“It is summer, why is the sun cold?” she demanded one afternoon, standing in the drizzle outside Tesco.

Her winter coat became her permanent uniform, regardless of the month. In July, while people were sunbathing in Hyde Park, Mama wore two scarves and muttered prayers against pneumonia. She carried an umbrella like a sceptre and smacked me lightly on the arm if I dared step outside without a jacket.

“You people want to die young,” she’d say, glaring at my thin hoodie.

 

Language Skirmishes

Mama’s English was flawless, Nigerian English. The Queen’s English was… suspicious. Words had different meanings here. Sometimes too different.

At the post office, the clerk asked if she wanted signed delivery. Mama misheard.
“I cannot sing for you,” she said flatly.
“I mean… do you want the parcel signed for?”
“Ohhh. Yes, but don’t expect me to be singing.”

At a café, a barista asked if she wanted her latte skinny. Mama squinted.
“My dear, are you calling me fat?”

Even greetings were tricky. She found “You alright?” deeply unsettling.
“Why are they asking me if I’m alright?” she hissed. “Do I look sick?”

Still, she powered through, teaching her colleagues phrases they didn’t need. One poor woman left work saying, “No condition is permanent,” after a printer jam.

 

The Pepper Soup Incident

If weather and language were skirmishes, food was her outright invasion. Mama’s pepper soup was legendary. It could unclog a sinus from three houses away.

The first incident happened three weeks after moving in. She was cooking goat pepper soup, the steam curling through the building’s air vents. There was a knock. Our landlord stood there, pale, holding a fire extinguisher.
“Is… something burning?” he asked.
“No, that’s goat,” Mama beamed. “Come, let me give you some.”
He refused.

The second time, he brought his wife, who covered her nose with a scarf. They refused again.

By the third time, something shifted. They not only accepted bowls but asked for seconds. The landlord still fanned his mouth with his tenancy agreement like it was a paper fan, but he ate every drop.

Soon, Mama had a whole network of addicted British neighbours coming by “just to say hello,” leaving with suspiciously heavy Tupperware.

 

The PTA Campaign

Mama joined the Parent Teacher Association as if it was a political campaign. At her first meeting, she introduced herself with, “If the chicken dances at the funeral, who will chase the fox?” Everyone clapped politely, possibly thinking she was quoting Shakespeare.

During a heated discussion about school lunch quality, she slammed the table. “In my country, a child will eat yam and become president. Here, you give them this…” she held up a limp fish finger, “and expect them to pass maths? My dear, forget it.”

By the end of term, she’d convinced the school to add jollof rice to the cultural day menu. She arrived in full traditional attire, feeding curious British children who returned with tearful eyes and shouted, “It’s spicy but it’s GOOD!”

 

Shopping Adventures

The UK supermarket was another battleground. Mama’s method was to loudly question the price of everything. “Two pounds for one mango? Does it contain gold inside?”

She didn’t believe in self-checkout. “Why will I do the job for free when they are paying somebody to stand there?” She would march to a cashier, slam her basket down, and narrate her entire shopping trip as the items were scanned.

Frozen section? “This chicken is dead twice. First, they kill it, then they freeze it. In my place, we eat it fresh so the blood is still warm.”

 

The Britishisation of Mama

Somehow, slowly, Britain began to rub off on her.

She started queueing without complaint (though she still muttered under her breath). She began adding “cheers” at the end of phone calls, though it sounded like “chairs.”

One day, I found her sipping tea without sugar. “Look,” she said proudly. “I am now truly British.” I raised an eyebrow. “But I still eat it with puff-puff. Balance,” she added, popping one into her mouth.

 

The Garden Saga

We had a tiny backyard. Mama called it “my farm.” She grew tomatoes, peppers, and something the neighbours couldn’t identify but suspected was “witch herb.”

One morning, a fox wandered in. Mama chased it off with a broom, shouting, “You want to eat my crops? Over my dead body!”

The next day, she left a small plate of food for it, “so it won’t think we are wicked.” By the end of summer, the fox was practically a family member, lounging in the sun while Mama told it about her day.

 

The Bus Story

Public transport provided some of Mama’s most epic moments. Once, she accidentally sat in the priority seat for disabled passengers. A man politely pointed to the sign. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, standing up. “I thought it meant important people. And I am important.”

Another time, the driver asked her to tap her Oyster card. She tapped the wrong card, her loyalty card from a Nigerian food store. The machine beeped angrily.
“It is Oyster,” she insisted.
“That’s a loyalty card, m’am.”
“Well, I am loyal to the oyster,” she replied, and sat down.

 

Mama the Cultural Ambassador

Over the years, Mama became an unofficial cultural ambassador. She taught neighbours how to wrap plantain in foil before grilling, how to use shea butter for “everything from hair to heartbreak,” and how to haggle for a discount without blinking.

When the BBC filmed a segment about “diverse Britain,” they somehow ended up in our living room, with Mama explaining the history of jollof rice to a confused cameraman.

 

The Final Victory

Last Christmas, Mama hosted what she called “The British-African Peace Conference,” also known as a dinner party. She made roast turkey and egusi soup. She served meat pies and chin chin.

The guests — British, Nigerian, Ghanaian, Jamaican, and one very confused Polish couple, all left with containers of leftovers.

As she stacked the washing-up, Mama smiled at me. “You see? I did not just survive here. I colonised it back.”

And truly, she had. One confused cashier, one chilli-fuelled landlord, one jollof-converted PTA at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ayodeji Alabi on Unsplash