Sundays smell like the bristles of the broom violently sweeping the dust that sits on your floors,
Sundays smell like home cooked meals, church and fellowship all wrapped up in one,
Sundays smell like baked pastries after Sunday service wondering where your mother went,
And when you blink, there you are, holding the pestle, pounding the second batch of cassava and plantain and trying not to cry,
Hoping and fantasizing that somehow you’ll hit the wrong place and break the mortar in half so that Mother will calm your hysterics and forget the fufu and order takeout,
By the time you’re done fantasizing, you’re sitting and gulping down morsels of fufu thinking it was all worthwhile,
Why had you thought otherwise?
Nessa 🖤
AFRO387 