When Mama was around, the hut always smelled of jollof rice.
I think about the way her dark skin glowed like the summer sun, the way her smile made Baba come alive. The way her white hair fuzzed and coiled, an untamed crown that breathed and thrived.
I hear the myths she would tell me at night. Tzain’s laughter when they played agbön in the park.
Baba’s cries as the soldiers wrapped a chain around her neck. Her screams as they dragged her into the dark.
The incantations that spewed from her mouth like lava. The magic of death that led her astray.
I think about the way her corpse hung from that tree.
I think about the king who took her away.
I try not to think of her.
But when I do, I think of rice.
When Mama was around, the hut always smelled of jollof rice.
I think about the way her dark skin glowed like the summer sun, the way her smile made Baba come alive. The way her white hair fuzzed and coiled, an untamed crown that breathed and thrived.
I hear the myths she would tell me at night. Tzain’s laughter when they played agbön in the park.
Baba’s cries as the soldiers wrapped a chain around her neck. Her screams as they dragged her into the dark.
