Three cornerstones,
Breathing smoke and flames;
Boiling ancient pots of clay;
Rousing songs of ancient days,
And inspiring jazz sways of rare devices.
Children and husband eager
Of the evening delicacies
Mama is never whacked to steam.
Sweet soup of pumpkin leaves.
No oil nor salt to redeem –
Just a clay pot that brands magic.
She has lived in farms and kitchens,
Surrendering dreams and trade to feed;
Bringing forth from the powerhouse
Boundless ‘injera’ and pounded yams.
Hungry, angry, and smiling,
Hoping to quench war-torn bellies
Back from school, bare feet and body
Back from eight hours of work and duty
Having nothing to lose but eat and be merry.
Sweet stories and ancestral songs of strife,
Sleep comes alive and swarming.
Ah, this century’s youth don’t understand
That taste of food and smoke as one.
This poem was published in the 10th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
Please click here to download.
Beautiful!
Thank you, WSA, for publishing.
You are welcome.