I watched my mother cook that pot of soup
You know the one they say opens the door to a man’s heart.
I checked it and saw that her spices where not – baby, sweetie, darling, honey, sugar pie.
Words bathed in romantic sauce.
Instead I found – sir, daddy, nnanyi, your father.
Words. Still. Bathed in matrimonial respect.
When she tasted with her spoon she said, ‘Well the soup turned out okay’.
‘Wash the spoon before you taste from my soup Ada, always clean things up’.
I now realize that I do not want to cook my mother’s soup, she did not teach me how.
When I asked her about it she said,’It is not worth it dear, learn to cook something else’.
Maybe the kind of door her soup opened needs to stay shut.
‘Have the locks changed if you still want to use my door’.
My mother’s children and I am the stock fish, extra kpomo, mende mende that made her soup worth cooking.
O I must do things differently for the sake of our children.