FOOD POETRY (ISSUE 4)

Food Poetry (Issue 4)

 

WHAT KILLED UNCLE JOE by Pace Ejikem

 

Uncle Joe always had on a shirt of white,

And a black or brown pair of pants to match.

But his clothing wasn’t just of any size,

It was of extra extra large.

 

Uncle Joe, our big fat neighbour

With a stain over his breast of butter

And maybe red from ketchup or some other colour

Was never ever found “food sober”.

 

He always had a bowl before his tummy,

And a bottle of milk, to wash it down

Plus a usual appetizer…. Some burger,

He always munched this with a frown.

 

“Joe can’t you stop eating?” his mother cried

“Do you want me to die?” He replied

He ate and ate and ate

Until nothing was left of the crate.

 

Uncle Joe loved every bowl of Eba!

With a mix of Egusi soup,

And His father bought him burger,

Thus he grew too fat to even stoop.

 

“The doctor warned you” his mother yelled

“but father says I need to grow” he said

As he ate a bowl of cold Eba

With his milk and appetizing burger

 

I always watched him through the window pane

As he ate and drank and had no shame

I smacked my young lips wishing for those,

That uncle Joe’s taste had rightly chose

 

One day uncle Joe was no more

I asked my mom, and she said he was gone

What killed my fat neighbour, Joe?

Was it Eba, the burger or the milk to go?

 

 

Pace Ejikem is a 16year old Nigerian from Imo State, studying Medicine and Surgery at Abia State University. He was shortlisted for the 2015 edition of Eriata Annual Food Poetry Contest with his poem, ‘What Killed Uncle Joe’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE HAVE FOUND A HOME by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

 

I have eaten pounded yam

which, with its holiness of tastes,

purged my soul of the demons of hunger

that lurked around in stomachs of emptiness…

 

I have tasted fresh palm wine from my father’s gourd

and it became a river to the barren dryness of my throat,

placing my drunken feet on the clouds…

 

this mouth has played nocturnal host to eba* –

the lovechild of garri Ijebu and steamy water –

and it has disvirgined my estuary

till it bled out the belch of satisfaction…

 

…but none compares

to the magic of  Abeni’s

kitchen rituals.

 

The wet aroma of her food whets

my appetite till I begin to drool

and my saliva swims away blindly,

snaking and searching for the seductive smell

that has caged my nosy nostrils.

 

As she places her amala* in front of me,

I calabash it in my hand,

feeling its soft heat burning into my fingers,

its sweetness coats my tongue

with a chorus of angelic songs that silence

the ghostly voices of famishment.

 

Let me tell you

about her gbegiri* and ewedu* soup,

with its sloppiness that drowns each morsel of amala,

and peppery hotness that cataracts my eyes

from the swaying buttocks of other village maidens.

 

The toughness of her bokoto* meat

is a talkative that hangs between my incisors,

telling my mother that I have gone

visiting my lover’s hut again.

 

Ah! And her beer…

it is brewed with love

and its coolness sends my throat

into a rhythmic shock of relentless orgasms

and I know-

so do my tongue and my teeth and my throat

and my stomach-

we all know, with all guilty reservations,

we know…

that we have found a home in Abeni.

 

eba – a type of food made with garri and hot water

amala – a Yoruba delicacy made of yam flour

gbegiri – a type of soup made of beans

ewedu – a type of soup made with ground leaves

bokoto – meat got from the foot of a cow

 

Kanyinsola Olorunnisola is a young poet and essayist who resides in Ibadan, Nigeria. He is an unrepentant believer in the power of words. His works have appeared on several national and international platforms such as the Sampad International Creative Writing Contest anthology, Kalahari Review and the BPPC anthology “Wind of Change”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE WOULD MAKE FOOD IN PLACE OF WAR by Ajijola Habeeb

 

The frozen grounds in the cold winter
Would not deprive us our harvest
Even if the rain has refused to come
With our sweats we would water these seeds
Until they are ripe enough to make us a feast

No matter what the world throws at us
We would make ourselves a feast
And eat to our hearts’ content

These tears rolling down our
eyes
Are not for the countless souls buried beneath
Nor are they for the freshly burst skulls lying on the streets
These tears are for the freshly sliced onions
Aromatizing our meals with its romantic scent
We would feast like our worries are no more

The pom! Pom! Pom!
Of pestle hitting mortar
Punishing slice after slice of yam
Would deafen our ears
To the repeated bomb blasts and gun shots in the air
We would feast, oblivious of their hostility

The choking smoke from the frying palm oil
Would numb our senses
To the used-to-be dusty roads
Now blood flowing streams in front of our doors
We would make food instead of war

So when we come face to face with their guns and bullets ready to fire
We would hold out a morsel of akpu
And set before them a plate of Ofada rice with its peppery stew
We would feed them the earth black amala with ewedu
And the heavenly white Fura De Nunu as dessert
We would feed them till the beast in them is too heavy to stand
We would feed them with love
We would feed them until they are sane again
We would feed them until they’d rather eat than kill.

Ajijola Habeeb is an economist by profession and qualification but his passion lies in the creative world particularly with poetry. He is the founder and Coordinator of Penfreaks Literary Initiative.