Mama’s cooking pot

Nkem, carry that like someone that has hands
Like someone that has manners
Like someone with home training
And has no wishes for tears.

That fed your big sister,
No, not Chioma, your first sister.
It was a gift from your grandma,
Her spirit’s spits at how you handle it.

Nkem! Nkem!! Nkem!!!
Ewo!!! Chinekeme, – what is that smell?
I rushed down to the kitchen,
There was black outside and inside the pot.

And all I could smell was trouble.