My son calls me Mummy.

I love my son (obviously). He loves me. In fact we have the same name. Jason Njoku. But he doesn’t call me Daddy. He calls me Mummy.
As 2015 draws to a close and I think back at another year under the belt, I think of the recent tumultuous yet significant occurrences of the year. I remember a similar period of relative turbulence at iROKO. 2013. Back then, as there were earlier this year, there were calls I had mismanaged iROKO. 200 people were under my egotistical whim and were being exploited from a labour law perspective. And many applauded. Apparently they always knew I was a fraud. Thank God, I was going to be fired. Finally.
And yet here we are. Another year under the belt and my highest and ever after thought in 2015 was the birth of my daughter. Nwakaego (Igbo translation = a child is worth more than money) Annabelle Njoku. Back in 2013, with all the things that occurred, I only have one lasting memory. Having my first child and son. 2.5 years later, he calls me Mummy.
Why...