A loved errand
was, on some evenings,
taking portions of my mother’s dinners,
in a white carrier,
to my grandmother and my aunt;
and after enjoying offerings of their dinners,
—now a total of three under my belt—
taking their reciprocated dinners
back to my mother and father.
I remember some of those dinners:
my mother’s red pea soup with smoked pork,
yellow yam and cocos;
green gungo peas during the Christmas season,
cooked down in a coconut sauce with saltfish, tomatoes and
boiled green bananas,
or turned cornmeal with cow peas, okra, onions
and tomatoes.
My grandmother’s pepperpot soup with calalu,
the heart of tender dasheen leaves,
turnips, carrots and dumplings;
and my aunt’s pineapple chicken Chinese style,
with rice and peas.
Since persons elsewhere seldom recognised them,
I realise now that some of my mother’s meals
were her own creations,
as inventive as her artistic embroidery
on our pillowcases, placemats, tablecloths and curtains;
the hats, handbags and belts she made from straw for sale,
along with the clothes she designed and made on her sewing machine,
and which,
like the dinners that came from her hands,
I carried to recipients in the village,
who happily welcomed me
as the carrier of my mother’s good tidings.