Mother’s Day is approaching faster than my mom can spot a dirty dish I “accidentally” left in the sink, and like every proper Kenyan child, I’m caught between genuine appreciation and mild panic. Here in Nairobi, celebrating our mothers isn’t just an event—it’s practically a national security matter.

My mother, like most Kenyan moms, has perfected the art of the guilt trip. “Me? Don’t worry about me. I only carried you for nine months, nearly died giving birth, and sacrificed everything so you could succeed. But a simple phone call on Mother’s Day? Too much to ask, I suppose.” This is typically delivered while simultaneously cooking enough food to feed our entire estate, because heaven forbid anyone leaves her house hungry.

The gift dilemma is real, my friends. What do you get the woman who claims she needs nothing but judges everything? For my shags-loving mom, I’ve learnt that practical luxury works best: a good-quality kitenge dress from Biashara Street that she can wear to church and brag about to her friends, or a fancy electric pressure cooker that cuts chapati-making time in half. If your mother is the modern Nairobi type, perhaps a spa day at one of those fancy places in Westlands where they’ll massage away years of stress caused primarily by raising you. For the sentimental moms, nothing beats a framed family photo—but make sure everyone looks good in it, or you’ll never hear the end of it. And if you’re truly stuck, remember that a good quality handbag is the Kenyan mother’s status symbol at church harambees. Just make sure it’s not the fake Gucci from Toi market—mothers have a sixth sense for counterfeits, especially when they need to impress Mama Ciru from the women’s guild.

Last year, I made the rookie mistake of bringing a store-bought cake. The look she gave me could have wilted the flowers I’d also brought. “You bought this? With what money? The money I could have used to pay for your school fees?” Never mind that I’m 25 years old with a job. In her eyes, I’m still that child who needs to be reminded that “money doesn’t grow on trees, even those big ones in Karura Forest.”

This year, I’m planning ahead. I’ve already told my boss I need Friday off to prepare—not because Mother’s Day is on Friday, but because preparing for a Kenyan Mother’s Day celebration requires military-level precision and at least 24 hours of prep time.

The plan: wake up at dawn to beat Nairobi traffic, pick up my siblings so we can present a united front (safety in numbers!), stop at Junction Mall for gifts that say “I remember all your sacrifices” without looking like I spent too much money that could have gone toward “building something of my own.”

My mother, like every Kenyan matriarch, can detect insincerity from fifty kilometers away. She’ll know if I recycled last year’s card or if I’m repeating the same WhatsApp forward I sent to her friends in the chama group.

And the questions! Oh, the questions that will come during the Mother’s Day lunch: “When are you giving me grandchildren?” “That neighbor’s son just bought his mother a car, what about you?” “Have you been eating? You look too thin/too fat/exactly the same but I’m concerned anyway.”

But beneath all the drama and expectations, there’s something beautifully unique about celebrating Mother’s Day the Kenyan way. It’s in how my mom will pretend she doesn’t want any gifts but will carefully display each one where visitors can see them. It’s in how she’ll complain about the restaurant we take her to but will secretly take photos to show her friends later.

It’s in how she’ll call me the next day to thank me again, her voice softer, the woman behind the unbreakable facade revealing herself just enough to remind me why we go through this elaborate dance of love and obligation every year.

So this Mother’s Day, like all Kenyan children, I’ll navigate the minefield of expectations, dodge the comparison traps, endure the interrogations about my life choices, and remember that behind every dramatic sigh and raised eyebrow is a woman who would move mountains for me—and has.

And if all else fails, I’ll just remind her that at least I’m not like Mwende’s son, who—according to reliable estate gossip—forgot Mother’s Day entirely last year. Nothing brings a Kenyan mother more joy than knowing her child is “the good one.”

Happy Mother’s Day to all Kenyan moms! May your tea always be hot, your children’s phone calls frequent, and your bragging rights among friends abundant.