The flesh cracks and breaks free from its skeleton,
And falls back to the ground where it belongs,
Perhaps that is why I like mud houses; mud on mud,
Not the stones from below imposed above.
Everything in it is covered with nylon because,
The smoke that hovers paints everything a matte black,
My eyes are bloody red but gives my clothes
The signature of African countryside scent.
Thus I sit by the kitchen door listening,
To Mother and Grandma’s little talks,
Grandma calls Mother by name, and I realize,
That Mother, like me, is but the child of another.
Everyone else sits around Grandma too,
At least for that Christmas night when we visit her,
We all love the cliché of Grandma’s tales,
And are fascinated by the world before we existed.
She tells us of the lush streams and forests she grew up around,
Of her husband, the importance of education,
Of the necessity to remain noble and saved in Christ,
And she always infects us with her laughter.
She is the reason we endure the dense grey air,
She is the center that holds,
Radiating love and joy, seated on her stool by the fire.
She is the kitchen, the essence of its being.
This poem was published in the 10th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
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Read – Open Secret – Oso Opeyemi (Nigeria)
