The way to a man's heart
Is through his stomach,
A bendy, bloated road
Of routine, stomach acid and something else.
Before this I am six or so,
Creating meals with reckless
Abandon.
My imaginary friends have
Such wild palettes;
Sand soup
Garri made from stones
Rice made of air
They scrape tomato tins
And Coca Cola corks,
They
Murmur in
Deep appreciation.
These men
Break me.
I offer dishes in fear;
Egusi means I love you
Ofe nsala please don't leave me
On cold nights Jollof is me atoning
For a sin I did not commit.
I look intently as he eats
And hope he murmurs
In deep satisfaction.
I was twelve or so,
When it hit me
Cooking will never be reckless.
That was the day Ma led me into the kitchen
Sat me on a stool,
Gave me a mortar and a pestle,
"It's time for real cooking." She announced.
Ma should have told me
I will make meals
Steeped in carefulness,
Wrapped tight in routine,
Gasping
For reckless abandon.
Ma should have told me
I will grope
Through the acid, food stained stomach
Of a man,
Looking for love.
Author Bio:
Ifediba Zube writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. When she is not neck deep in clinical postings she is in hiding with a good book. She has been published on Kalahari Review, African Writer, Windmill and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
Is through his stomach,
A bendy, bloated road
Of routine, stomach acid and something else.
Before this I am six or so,
Creating meals with reckless
Abandon.
My imaginary friends have
Such wild palettes;
Sand soup
Garri made from stones
Rice made of air
They scrape tomato tins
And Coca Cola corks,
They
Murmur in
Deep appreciation.
These men
Break me.
I offer dishes in fear;
Egusi means I love you
Ofe nsala please don't leave me
On cold nights Jollof is me atoning
For a sin I did not commit.
I look intently as he eats
And hope he murmurs
In deep satisfaction.
I was twelve or so,
When it hit me
Cooking will never be reckless.
That was the day Ma led me into the kitchen
Sat me on a stool,
Gave me a mortar and a pestle,
"It's time for real cooking." She announced.
Ma should have told me
I will make meals
Steeped in carefulness,
Wrapped tight in routine,
Gasping
For reckless abandon.
Ma should have told me
I will grope
Through the acid, food stained stomach
Of a man,
Looking for love.
Author Bio:
Ifediba Zube writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. When she is not neck deep in clinical postings she is in hiding with a good book. She has been published on Kalahari Review, African Writer, Windmill and Brilliant Flash Fiction.
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