1
The engine that fuels bellies,
The furnace where aroma grows like flame on a daily basis,
Where pot burns to make meals.

Mother's private room is where pestle beats mortal
once in a while.
Where knife slither meats
and pọ̀nmọ́ to pieces

With spoon, dancing rhythmically in soup
As palm, begs for a taste of it moves
And the tongue nods approvingly at the
performance of mother's hands-like-spoon

The name; Ọlọ́wọ́ ṣíbí
She well deserves.

2
Mother's private room
can be of modern or ancient built.

The modern one is made of blocks
with tiled or cemented floors and walls.
And utensils, arranged like arts tools,
Make the room more beautiful
than someone else's room!

Here, fire behaves like an introvert;
Keeping to itself; no cacophony whatsoever
For the fire glows gently from a gas cooker
And no extra source of air is required

The pots here are as white as snow
It's not a tall tale to say everything here is as expensive as gold.

3
Mother's ancient private room
is with muds, built.
The cooker here is Àrò; Three hard stones
on which pot painted black by smoke, sit.
Beneath which firewood burns with a golden or smoky flame.

The smoky flame
sting mother's eyes with tears,
Causing mother to cry with sweats
as she blows air from her lungs
or with a portable hand fan; Àbẹ̀bẹ̀
to make the smoky flame burn.

Cooking in mother's ancient private room can be exhausting,
Yet, mother must cook for the family...

Day: 005/100
#the100writingmarathon

© AM Odunayo