Are all oldest daughters exactly like their mums? Growing up, I can’t count how many times I heard people say I was exactly like my mum. It came from everyone — family members, family friends, even strangers who barely knew us. And honestly, it always made me smile. I adore my mum. She’s my superhero — the most selfless person I know — so being compared to her felt like the highest compliment anyone could give me.
Over the years, I’ve had so many moments that proved just how much of her lives in me. Some were small things, like mannerisms or expressions. Others were bigger — like the way I cooked, the way I cared for my siblings, the way I stepped up when things got hard.
Cooking Like My Mum
In most Cameroonian homes — and really most African homes generally , the responsibility of making the family meals often falls on the kids once they are old enough to know their way around the kitchen. Being the oldest girl child in the house, I got the baton to handle this special project quite early. My brothers had this habit: whenever they came home, the first thing they would ask was if there was food at home. The second question was always, “Who cooked?”
If the answer was “Little” (that’s what they used to call me), I could see the little smile tugging at their faces, even if they tried to hide hard to hide it. Quick question: do brothers everywhere take a secret oath to never compliment their sisters’ cooking? Mine used to act like praising me would deduct points from their manhood. And yet, they’d still clear their plates every single time. Global phenomenon, I’m convinced.
Later I understood why they had always asked who did the cooking. As it turns out everyone thought my cooking tasted exactly like Mum’s. My younger sisters were good cooks too, but for some reason, people always said my food had her exact touch.
Here is a memory that stuck with me
One moment, in particular, will always stay in my heart. My mum was a local food vendor. All through my life, I watched her wake up early to cook huge pots of food — five different dishes sometimes — and sell them by the roadside. That was our life, day in and day out. That was the life I was born into and its all I saw as I grew up.
Sometimes she had to travel to the village or step away for a family emergency. But she never wanted to shut down her business while she was away — she believed if customers came once or twice and didn’t find food, they would look for another spot to eat and she would eventually lose them. And so when she was away, guess who the responsibility fell to ensure the business is running in her absence? The kids, and being the oldest girl child in the house I had to be at the forefront on this task.
I remember one time when she traveled. My siblings and I did everything ourselves — we cooked, packed, transported and sold the food as usual. The next day, when Mum returned from her trip and I went with her to sell, one of her regular customers approached her and asked why she had been sending just “the kids” to sell and not coming herself.
She explained she had traveled and that we’d been handling things. But for some reason this man didn’t believe her. He insisted she was lying — there was no way children could have cooked that food. He said it tasted exactly like hers. Mum tried convincing him, but he refused to listen. Finally, she laughed and let it go. Of Course mom was proud that her babies had done so well that her customers didn’t even know she was not around.
Standing there listening, I felt this quiet pride. I was still young, yet I had cooked food so good that even grown men couldn’t believe it was me. At that age I believed a lot of my agemates could cook but cooking in large quantities and cooking a variety of meals within a short period of time was not what alot my peers could handle.
Being Her Reflection
Moments like this happened often. Even in the market, people would mistake me for her younger sister. And as much as I loved hearing it, it also made me realize something deeper: all the years of watching her, helping her, and learning from her shaped me into who I am today.
Sometimes I wonder if all first daughters turn out like this — almost like little mirrors of their mothers. Maybe it’s because we see them at their most unfiltered: their strength, their flaws, their sacrifices. We learn by watching, by doing, and sometimes by steppin
In Retrospect
Looking back now, I realize those words — “You’re just like your mum” — weren’t just about cooking or mannerisms. They were about resilience. They were about learning to show up, even when it’s hard.
I didn’t just inherit her recipes. I inherited her strength, her grit, and her ability to keep going no matter what.
And honestly? That’s one of the greatest gifts she could have ever given me. Sometimes, the things we resent while growing up — the responsibilities, the sacrifices, even the comparisons — turn out to be the very things that shape our strength. Becoming like the people we admire most is not losing ourselves; it’s carrying forward the best parts of them. You the daughter reading this how similar are you to your mum?