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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Reeds and dry mud walls, Into whose crevices, weaving needles and knives are fixed. Iron sheets of rust on top, (The only modern feature!) With leakages through which we can even visualize the sun, Through which rain water and even dew leak. Sooty interior of the roof,with molecules -black. A dusty floor covered with grass; From the hills and swamps of the village; Three stone stove, With a pot of thick potatoes on it; With pieces of wood pushed in, And choking smoke, Irritating to the airway; Traditional-modern girl child kneels down, Like she's about to pray to the gods For the food of a poor home to get ready soon, Only to blow her lungs out into the fire, That the glowing splints;she may rekindle- With the oxygen she had already inhaled. Pestle and mortar in one corner, Grinding stone in another, The wooden rack has its feet buried in the ground, To fairly carry the plastic and iron plates and cups. Banana bunch hidden at the entrance corner, And a cluster of ripening yellow bananas Kept up the wooden ceiling above the fireplace, On to which logs of firewood are stored, And fetched one by one for splitting, When the cooking is ongoing. Wooden benches for the male visitors; And papyrus mats for the women and children, Who come to pay us a visit; (Much as we say women and girls are never visitors) And maybe a special papyrus floormat (That acts as table and table mat at the same time) And only surfaces at mealtime, When a large iron plate is brought, And food is poured on to it While we all assemble to sit around it, To eat from it,all of us; Like you do at modern round dining tables. A big calabash at the center,with its children around it; With the juice of life, Ankore millet porridge! Settled inside them, waiting to be shaken, Before from them,we drink the drink of life; When we have had our survival meal. Traditional-modern kitchen of our times, That has lived to see both ages, The dark and post colonial period; the old and new times That has seen no sand or tiles; With no cupboards or water sinks, Lives by the pity of the stormy rains, That come with wind and hailstone. You have fed us by your existance, You have sheltered us in the cold, You have harbored us, Through the long nights in the cold season When we hide by the fire, To roast the maize and cassava While the stories and merry go down our lips, With the sweet warmth of the dying fire, Keeping alive the life in us Traditional-modern kitchen Of our times, I cannot thank you enough.
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