We’d sit and watch the cooking fire illuminate the night,
Africa, the earth darker than the sky
sleeps in silence but not us,
not hungry children daydreaming
under a cruising moon, aroma bewitching our souls.
Ogbónó soup — the favourite of the gods and (wo)men.
Mother cast a shadow to her left,
looks like a goddess in some forgotten myth,
stirring the soup as if preparing a magical
potion for her enchanted subjects —
joy flapping in our chests like a sunbird
in some undiscovered woods.
The cooking fire like the art of seduction,
the soup simmers —
aroma that can make Adam fall again
like how my father tripped over on his way to the kitchen.
Watch us travel on the whiff of taste
like a genie trapped inside a honey jar.
Watch us lust after food like a flirt,
like a bee buzzing outside a sugar jar.
Watch us dream
and wait for the angel to
bring the good news: come eat children.
The comparison here is overwhelming, yet none is to be discarded. The poem is great in all. Kudos, poet 👍