The cracks and crackle,
The rhythmic drubbing of her colossal spoon
inside this bowl overflowing with boiled mokimo potatoes.
This sound tells of the long coming tale
Of a people on the path to reclamation
-Of the proudly heavyset woman who
like the gods , creates the marvel of a sound-
And of this ritual of hers where we unconsciously find
a ménage camaraderie we did not know we needed…
I sit venerating her profound focus.
The crafting of a forthcoming experience is in motion.
With her mashing comes an explicit kind of reverence,
an unknown kind of knowledge;
And with the subsequent addition of the pumpkin leaves
-a surprise that comes with a mysterious wholesome appeasement.
The subsequent grinding of the mixture-
a nonplus that originates from the depths,
a new sound that’s created on pounding…
When this work of art is eventually done,
She displays it with pride in her clag-built kitchen hut
As if announcing to the world a new oeuvre in town,
As if proclaiming to her offspring;
‘Your mother is an African goddess.’
Like a princess bestowed with new regalia,
we marvel at the finished masterwork;
our mouths drawling with desire.
Like the leaches we are,
We fail to acknowledge this miracle was performed by
One who was dealt with a hand that is straightened,
And when we are eventually full like the gluttons we were born as,
We fail to notice that the miracle worker sits happily with a bare plate…
*Mokimo – Traditional Kikuyu staple meal
Responses