It is the smell of ogi
Cooking on a kerosene stove
When the house is still quiet
And the air outside still carries the song of crickets
And the morning wind that flows through the open windows is cool
- that reminds you of your grandmother’s house
The house on top of the relief
Where the clear stream flows
And the cocks and hens trot
And the wood cutter hammers from dawn till dusk
It is that house that holds you
And reminds you
Of your days in Shimawa
It was to that house
Your parents sent you and your brother
When Yewande died suddenly from the epilepsy
And the silence crawled into your father’s mouth
And the darkness soaked into your mother’s skin
And nothing was ever the same again
And you did not know
For the longest time
That she was dead
You thought she had been hospitalized
Like in previous years
But on the day she would have turned fifteen
And your parents did not come to cart you and your brother away to the hospital
When the nurses would gather around her bedside and sing for her
When there was cake and Coke
You knew then
When the day swept by without a whisper of Yewande
That something was terribly wrong
It is the smell of ogi
Cooking on a kerosene stove
When the house is still quiet
And the air outside still carries the song of crickets
It reminds you
That life was snuffed out of your sister
And that you never got
To say
Goodbye