When my sister heard that Mama had died, the first thing she said was:
“Our shield is gone.”
It pierced me because we all knew exactly what she meant.
Mama was never a shield made of iron or physical strength — she was a praying shield, a force, an intercessor, a woman whose voice stood before God on behalf of every one of us.
She guarded us not with hands, but with rosaries.
Not with weapons, but with Psalms.
Not with warnings, but with prayers said at dawn, at noon, and long after the world had stopped praying.
Growing up, everything in our lives had one instruction:
“Call Mama.”
“Mama, pray for me.”
“Mama, I’m afraid.”
“Mama, something happened.”
“Mama, I am so angry.”
“Mama, please just pray.”
We all leaned on her — every grandchild.
And nothing showed this more than the night my sister fell seriously ill.
She came home one evening complaining of stomach pain. Instead of going to the hospital we trusted, she went to a small clinic nearby. They didn’t know her medical history, so they gave her something that triggered a severe reaction.
By 11 p.m., she couldn’t stand, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even lie still.
My mother rushed us to the hospital.
The moment we arrived, the room shifted.
Fear entered quietly, but fully.
Doctors spoke in clipped, urgent tones.
Nurses moved sharply from one corner to another.
Machines beeped.
My mother’s hands trembled.
And then the words:
“Her appendix has ruptured. She needs emergency surgery.”
Fear rose like smoke.
“Mama,” my mother whispered. “Call Mama.”
I dialled immediately — rushing my words, stumbling over sentences, talking to the one person who always knew what to do when the rest of us didn’t know how to pray.
Mama didn’t panic.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t ask for medical details.
She simply said:
“Put the phone to her ear.”
My sister was already sedated, slipping in and out of consciousness — but Mama didn’t wait.
She began to pray:
Hail Mary…
Our Father…
Glory be…
Then her usual string of Psalms, jumping effortlessly from verse to verse, forming a perfect prayer that always fit the moment.
The Memorare.
St. Michael the Archangel.
And of course — the reliable helper in every difficult case — St. Jude.
Then, with the tenderness of a mother offering comfort to a child, she said:
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…”
We didn’t pray.
We couldn’t pray.
Mama prayed for all of us — like she did every single time.
And then came the moment none of us will ever forget.
My sister — under anaesthesia, still refusing to open her eyes long after she should have been awake — suddenly began to sing Salve Regina…
and then slipped into Ave Maria.
It was a stunning sight.
Loud.
Clear.
Stronger than anything expected from someone unconscious.
A nurse asked, “Who is singing in there?”
Another whispered, “Is that the girl from surgery?”
A doctor — who was not Christian — waited until she finished.
She didn’t finish for a long while.
Finally she drifted back into sleep, but not before we all looked at one another — half laughing, half confused.
And me? I grabbed my phone quickly to record the whole thing before she later said, “It never happened.”
She was loud.
Her voice was beautiful.
And no one dared to stop her.
We knew the truth:
That was Mama.
Her intercession covering her grandchild in a way medicine could not explain.
Her faith reaching across distance.
Her voice piercing through anesthesia.
Her spirit touching a child who couldn’t even speak for herself.
This was how she lived.
This was how she loved.
We called her for everything:
“Mama, pray — I have an exam.”
“Mama, pray — I’m travelling.”
“Mama, pray — I’m afraid.”
“Mama, pray — I’m sad.”
“Mama, pray — something good happened.”
“Mama, please thank God with me.”
She made us understand that life is not sustained by human strength alone.
Every victory, every healing, every joy, every breath — all of it was divine providence.
So yes — when my sister said “Our shield is gone,” she meant the woman who prayed without resting.
The woman who prayed storms into silence.
The woman who prayed sickness into retreat.
The woman who prayed fear into courage.
And without her voice on the other end of the phone, we felt — and still feel — exposed.
Naked.
Vulnerable.
Like we must now learn to pray for ourselves.
How will we ever do this like Mama?
But then I remembered something she once told me:
“Children think prayer is a chore before God.
But prayer is just that honest conversation —
say it as you feel it,
cry if you must,
praise Him like you would a loved one,
reverence Him like a King,
and sulk if you must.”
And this morning, that truth returned like sunlight breaking through clouds:
Maybe our shield is not gone.
Maybe she has simply changed position.
On earth, Mama prayed with limitations — with breath, with time, with distance.
But now?
She stands before God.
She sees clearly.
She loves completely.
She intercedes without exhaustion or sleep.
She is not just a shield anymore.
She is a fortress.
A shield protects from the front.
A fortress surrounds on every side.
Mama no longer answers the phone —
but she hears us in the silence of prayer.
She no longer sits on a pew praying for us —
she stands in the presence of God Himself.
She no longer whispers our names —
she presents them before Heaven.
So yes, my sister said:
“Our shield is gone.”
But tonight, with a quiet certainty, I know something deeper:
Our shield has become a fortress.
And though unseen, she is closer than she ever was.
With love and memory,
PS: If you want to follow the complete series of Alice The Matriarch, you can find it below:
Day 1 – Where My Story Truly Begins – Olú Abíkóyè
DAY 2 — When Mama Told Me to Walk – Olú Abíkóyè
