Cracking Groundnuts Poem by John Agandin

Some nights, when the moon is happy
Smiling broadly from its heavenly home.
A small crowd gathers in the yard;
Grandma, mother, aunty and the others
Not forgetting me and three smaller ones.
Akangriba the dog would be present
As is the cat meowing around.
Baba is outside on the dampala[1]
With a neighbour for company
An age-old ritual is being enacted,
And none can be left out.
A hand reaches into the big bowl
And grabs a handful of groundnuts,
Ka, ka, crack! goes the shells,
Hard-pressed between thumb and index.
Opened shells are clasped in one hand
Or dropped in a calabash nearby
And the ritual is repeated again and again.
Until our fingers ache, we the little ones.


So we find support in our teeth.
A seed or two usually remaining
To keep the jaws busy and sleep at bay.
When this becomes too frequent,
We earn a rebuke or two,
And are driven off to our mats,
Beside the cracking party,
Under the grinning moon.
Though we rest our aching thumbs,
Our mouths shut grudgingly
Being denied the pleasure of chewing
And soon we are fast asleep
With the sound of cracking groundnuts
In our dreams…ka, ka, crack!
In the morning, we stare in wonder
For all the groundnuts is cracked,
And carefully stored away.
Then we wish we had stayed awake,
Or smuggled the nuts in our pockets
As we went to our mats.
But it is impossible to do so
When the moon is so exultant,
Not to mention the vigilance of mother
And the mischief of older siblings.


There are some seasons and years,
When one hears the sound
Of cracking groundnuts,
But never sees the precious nuts.
Those are the hungry years,
When the groundnut is small,
And the field to be planted is large,
And it is too dear to buy more.
Mother does the cracking
Alone in the shadows of nightfall
When all the yawning mouths
And empty rumbling bellies
Are gone to their hungry mats.
In those years, groundnuts
Are endangered species.
Even balingka[2] is done in secret
And summons to join the sowing party,
Are given with strict admonition
Not to take any prisoners,
Or eat any of the wounded,
As that would awaken appetites
Too dangerous to pacify.
But verily, verily we all know
That all the wounded, dismembered,
Sick, and shriveled seeds
Have been meticulously separated
And jealously hoarded at home,
To be the foundation
Of the next wokta[3] soup!