Grandmother And I Poem by Chima Ononogbu

Happy days with grandmother
in the days ago long,
when simmered underneath grandmother's stout look frail,
and I with exuberance bursting, although old and young,
but we lived as hand and mouth; twins of far-off generations.

As two friendly birds, we treaded the muddy farmland paths
wherefrom we bundled home unbreathing woods to make evening fire.
Then the brushy hilly path down the old river we strolled
often as grandmother's calabash needed filling with water.

With grandmother, hunger was a stranger,
she wetted the pots with Oriental spices, even tarragons
that shattered gloom with aroma calming
as the bubbling air stirred up by roaring fragrance,
and onlooking walls, their tongues flicking off fragrance dripping.

Afterward, grandmother and I would sit
around this plate of earth's crust brimming with spicy soup
and pounded yam, which in gladness we whisked into our bellies
while grandmother rained my soul with tales of ages past.