When mama calls my name in full,
I have sinned never to enjoy the day’s food,
The fare that night will be Okra and stew with eba,
She knows I detest the slimy nature of the green veggie,
But the enticing yellow mound of this cassava ball calls.
Hoping to escape the anguish, I opt for stew alone,
 It’s like eating raw ball pepper, tatashe and shonbo,
Picked, ground and cooked without spices,
With her eyes on me, I swallow each roll,
Like a prisoner eating his last dish.

 When mama smiles from the kitchen,
No fears - the aroma of her culinary skill announces,
The arrival of the famous Nigerian party Jollof rice,
The tomato spiked rice smiles under the fried crisp chicken,
Garnished with cucumber, fresh tomatoes and cabbage
Each spoon is filled with laughter as it reminds us of God,
The art of creation is manifest before us in food form,
The color of growth screams cucumber, green peeper, beans and peas.
White cabbage, Red tomatoes, Yellow sweet corn, Orange carrots,
Different shades of earth in chicken, dodo and moi-moi form,
A glass of grape wine supplements a pure glass of water,
Nigerian Jollof – the meeting point of Heaven and earth.

Don’t know what creation is?
Enter a Nigerian mother’s kitchen,
She turns nothing into a grand meal.

Sandra T. Adeyeye

This poem is extracted from an e-book named A Woman's Pot A Man's Stomach click this link to download a free copy

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