Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
To the one who taught be about life, and death. Who always ate Pounded Yam on Sundays. Freshly pounded to the rhythm of Sunday afternoons and pestles. To the one whose love for me was second to none. If you were here, I would have cooked you a feast, set a glorious table before you and served it with a bottle of stout, or Gulder.
But you aren’t and that’s fine. We’ll celebrate the memories of you, as we pinch of soft, doughy yam – freshly pounded, and as we feast on soups, quick and easy.
…till the okro loosens, changes green and becomes gelatinous.
From pounded yam to plate doesn’t take that very long. And devouring it is the same.
As I ate this last Sunday, I thought of you. Of your love. Happy, sad, moving on.