My mother was the first light in my life, the foundation on which my determination to succeed was built.
A pioneering woman, she was part of the first class of women from Dahomey recruited by the national police force, and became an accountant in this elite corps. At a time when women were hardly encouraged to pursue public careers, she already understood that dignity is not inherited, it is earned.
She raised us with discipline, integrity, and faith in the value of hard work. She told us repeatedly that knowledge is a weapon, and that politeness, discipline, and perseverance open doors that fortune closes.
We weren't rich in money, but we were infinitely rich in values. In our house in Porto-Novo, she made sure that nothing was lacking in our dignity, even when we didn't have much. She taught us to hold our heads high, to never give in to shame or take the easy way out.
When my father died, I was ten years old. In this sudden void, she became the pillar of our existence.
I can still see this dignified woman, standing tall, building her own house stone by stone, refusing to accept fate. She kept us going, refusing to bow under the weight of grief.
She said little, but acted with a quiet strength that commanded respect. Thanks to her, we never felt poverty was a curse, but rather a lesson in courage.
A woman of principle, my mother was never afraid to be firm when life demanded authority. Her severity was not harshness, but a form of demanding love.
She believed that children only grow up straight if they sometimes encounter resistance from a wall—and she embodied that wall with quiet elegance.
I will never forget *the slap*. I was a teenager at the time, at an age when you dream and flirt with life. In our neighborhood in Porto-Novo, a young girl named Michèle had just returned from Senegal. She had that frank smile and free spirit that made you want to follow her with your eyes.
We were supposed to meet one afternoon, just before my remedial class—a class my mother paid for out of her modest savings, with the rigor of a woman who leaves nothing to chance.
I chose carefree fun over duty. I arrived late for class, my heart still light with the memory of Michèle, convinced that this little deviation would go unnoticed.
But at home, nothing escaped my mother. She had that sixth sense that African mothers have, sensing lies before they are spoken. The tutor, faithful to his mission, reported to her.
That evening, she didn't yell. She simply called me over. Her gaze was calm, too calm, which made it frightening. Then, without a word, *the slap came, sharp, precise, stinging like a reminder of destiny*.
It wasn't so much the pain as much as the lesson: I had betrayed her trust, betrayed the sacrifices she made for me. In that gesture, there was neither anger nor contempt—only the expression of deep disappointment.
I felt humiliated, of course, but above all misunderstood. In my youthful pride, I believed she was exaggerating, that she didn't see that I was becoming an adult. So, driven by that adolescent rebellion that we mistake for dignity, I decided to react in my own way: with *silence and hunger*•
It was my first hunger strike, my first political battle—waged not against a regime, but against my own mother. My brother Soulé and I, convinced that we were now adults, announced that we refused to eat. We wanted her to recognize our right to have our friends over, to live our youth without constant supervision.
For several days, she remained impassive. She looked at us with a mixture of irony and tenderness in her eyes, waiting for hunger to bring us back to our senses. But we stood firm. We had sworn not to touch anything she prepared, neither food nor pocket money. And in her heart, I believe she was unsettled. We had touched her most sensitive nerve: her motherhood.
After a week, she gave in—or so we thought. She called us over, listened to our demands, and, in a falsely conciliatory tone, promised to be more flexible. We thought we had won a victory, a freedom conquered by hunger and determination.
But the truth is, she had won. Because through this ordeal, she had taught us something essential: freedom is never given, it is negotiated with responsibility.
We had obtained the illusion of flexibility, but she remained the guardian of the home, the one who decided the limits and redrew their contours according to the wisdom of the heart.
*Years later, I realized that this slap and hunger strike had been one of the greatest lessons of my life*.
My mother had let me believe that I had imposed myself, when in reality she had taught me moderation, patience, and respect for benevolent authority.
It was probably on that day that I first understood that courage and discipline can coexist in the same act of love.
When I left the country to pursue my studies abroad, she accompanied me with her gaze and her heart, without ever holding me back. She didn't have much, but she gave everything.
From Dakar, I wrote to her to tell her what I needed. She often deprived herself to send me a few money orders, gestures that seemed modest but carried all her love and faith in me. I knew she lived simply, that she struggled to maintain the illusion of abundance at home, and yet she never complained.
Years passed, and when I returned to see her before leaving for the United States, I expressed my gratitude for the sacrifices she had made.
She had just retired. I explained that I was leaving to try my luck elsewhere, without asking her for anything more. She listened to me in silence, her gaze proud, confident in my destiny. I think she knew better than I did that the road would be long, but that I would not stop until I had succeeded.
*Her confidence was my compass. Her courage was my foundation*.
Even today, everything I have accomplished bears the mark of her example.
She taught me that true nobility comes not from titles or fortunes, but from the courage to get back up every time life tests us.
My mother was one of those people who do not seek the limelight, but who light up everything around.
She passed away at the age of 87, peaceful, having passed on what matters most: the strength to stand tall, the courage to persevere, and the dignity to never give up.
And if I ever had *the audacity to succeed*, it was because a courageous woman taught me to believe, to fight, and to love without measure.
