Each time I walked past the kitchen,

The cooking pot said my mother’s name.

In the pot was clean, scaled fish

Seasoned with dashes of black pepper,

Diced onions, and palm oil,

With salt to taste.

She served it to us

With steaming white rice for lunch.

 

After my uncle died,

My mother moved out,

And into the kitchen.

 

She spoke candidly to the yams.

She wept with the dried bitter leaf,

While we were busy

With crushes on American girls

And my father busy

With spreadsheets.

 

She befriended the cutting board.

She spilled secrets to the pepper soup.

She found plentitude in a low stove flame.

The fridge was bursting with comestibles.

Aggressive scents invaded the kitchen.

 

My father grew jealous,  

And made my mother weep.

She cowered in her room,

And the conversations

Ceased.

 

The fridge grew thin.

The aroma grew tame.

We did not return to grain softening in the water

Before the vegetables were sliced.

We only returned to halting sobs

And turkey sandwiches.