Mother’s museum is where old calabashes sleep
beside earthenwares
and artefacts:
of the smell of locust beans,
of embers glowing sanguine,
of firewood growing up into little pyres,
of smoke dancing with intense frenzy,
of Mother’s nose breathing mucus and her eyes bleeding tears,
of her mucus never mixing with the contents of her black pot,
of her black pot resting on a three-searing-stone-stand,
of the stones scalding Mother’s palms,
of her palms now a gallery of burns & scars.
Mother’s museum is where I visit first after school: her face peering—
at my chubby cheeks swelling with juvenile joy;
at my mouth mouthing “gudu afternun” greetings & my paunch hollering hunger;
at my rump rapping against the muddy floor;
and at my eyes ogling the contents of her prized pot.
Mother’s museum is where her hands are always swift.
Swift hands:
of her burnt palms fisting up speedily,
of her three feeble knocks landing speedily,
of the knocks rapping against my head not so furiously.
and of the knocks yelling, “leave my kitchen / get off your uniforms / and don’t break my artifacts!”
all before my mouth spells food.
This poem was published in the 10th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
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Read – Three Stone Fireside – Nsang Rudolf Nchanji (Cameroon)
