Joannah Nwokeabia

 

Mother’s Plantains

 

 

As I hover over the thirsty pot

of hot oil waiting to swallow

soft plantain chips

in its sea of bubbles,

I look down

and see her calloused

hands with stubby nails

fervently peeling off the skin

of those grotesque massive things,

clawing until she reaches the sweetness.

This is the part she fed us.

I remember her marching us

little ones, Nwatakiri,

to the market Sunday afternoons,

one hanging from her neck

on her back like the sun,

one sandwiched between her armpit, breast

and sweet must.

She cupping my little hand

in her larger one and her purse in the other

Would find the ugliest plantain

Dark battered oozing

but deep fried

they were golden and delicious.

She scooped the sweet chips from the pot

and the angry oil jumped,

landing on her neck or breast

leaving pillowy spots on her skin for us to play with before

we balanced the scalding chips on our little finger tips

and she, Ugo, fierce fearless

rests her head on her shiny talons

and laughs.