Some of the most vicious fights on the Street have happened when mothers are invoked. Like when a girl swears by her mother to teach another a lesson. Or when one insinuates that a girl has learnt the ways of the Street from her mother. The latter always results in a heated exchange which ends up in a physical fight.

This is because mothers hold a special place in the hearts of the girls here. Though common knowledge has it that a child’s upbringing influences her adulthood decisions, the logic here is that being a sex worker is one’s own choice, which has nothing to do with the parents.

Girls tend to say, “My mother did her best, but I made the final decision to sell my body.” Although, if a girl is on the Street supposedly because her mum could not raise enough money to educate her and help her acquire a good job, then the blame is on the government and not the mother. And if not the government, then the father is to blame.

Interestingly, male clients also don’t want to have their mothers dragged into the filth of the Street. It’s always an ugly scene when a girl as much as suggests that a client’s mother has something to do with his uncultured manners, or his reluctance to pay, or his use of demeaning language.

On the other hand, as much as mothers are protected from the Street, the phrase “my mother” keeps popping up in our conversations. Not so much in praise but in fear and anxiety. The fear of what would happen if our mothers came to know what we do for a living. And the anxiety of waiting for her next call, thinking that during the last visit, one said and acted in a way that was contradictory enough to give her a clue of our true work—and not the “hotel job” one keeps telling her about.

The anxiety is not expressed directly, but more in an effort to bribe the mum into ignorance. In their heart of hearts, many girls suspect that their mothers know what they do and are only turning a blind eye to their daughter’s actions. So a girl will often say, “I need to

send my mother money,” or “Oh, I have missed my Mum. Let me call her.”

The esteemed way in which mothers are treated on the Street is also because many here are single mothers. Some joined the motherhood club in their teens or early twenties, as a result of love affairs gone sour, others because they ditched abusive marriages. Thus, they have first-hand experience of what it means to be a mother, in addition to living with the

ugly side of men. The fact that they are making the ultimate sacrifice to feed their

children makes them appreciate their own mothers more. And none of the mothers

here says she would like her kid to end up like her.

My mother was a free spirit, a liberal soul who taught me early on to take responsibility for my own life. While still in primary school, she repeated how the decisions I made would affect me then and in the future. How to a large extent, my life was in my hands. “It’s your life” was one of her more common phrases. In adulthood, Mum seemed more concerned about my life than when I was in her arms.

I guess she did not buy my ever changing stories of what I do in the city. At some point I wanted to tell her the truth. To lift the burden of lying to her. I imagined, like most girls, that if it came to saying the truth about my work on the Street, Mum would understand better than Dad.

She’d likely blame herself for not bringing me up in the right way and so forth, but she would not be as mad as Dad. She would still keep her doors open for me and probably give me some tips on handling men. Unfortunately, she passed away before I gathered enough guts to break her heart.

On the Street, any day marking a special event (or honoring a group of people) passes without notice if it does not translate to any monetary gain. Mother’s Day is no exception. But here we honor our mothers every day. Not with flowers but with our thoughts. It’s like we live for them.