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For All African Grandmothers

The sweet breeze fans
The savory aroma
of Grandma’s pepper soup,
Hot and boiling
In the heavy, blackened kettle.
With the familiar smell of smoke
Piercing my nostrils
And the drone of her soothing voice,
I can tell
That home is really
Where the heart is.

I sit on the mat,
My head on her soft lap
As she braids my hair.
Grandma tells me
Of days gone by,
Of chaste maidens
And strong brave men;
Of valor, love, honor
And riches untold.
Her sagas peppered now and then
With unctuous chieftains and perfidious wives
No other odyssey or quest
Can rival that of Grandma’s
Yester years and now.

The letters of her name,
She’ll never read,
Even if written bold and big
Across the sky,
But a reader of minds
This strong, Kpelle woman is,
And everyone will agree
That my grandma
Is queen of the countryside.

For many have suckled
At her breast
And at her fire hearth
The village has fed.
Countless navel strings
Buried in her backyard,
My Grandma’s palava hut
Is like a village square
Where many gather
In search of justice, consolation
Advice or blessings.

Veteran Midwife, Mother Confessor,
Judge, Babysitter,Spiritual Advisor
My grandma’s hands rock the cradle
And rule the world
From her hammock in the thatched hut.