Contrary to the African traditions, my mother taught me how to cook,
Mama would come home carrying cassava roots in a basket,
That’s the moment i would start lighting up the fire,
Since I knew it was my turn to come up with a good recipe, the family was eagerly waiting,
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The Mysterious Well
Long time ago when i was a kid, i used to fear going alone to the village well,
Dreadful stories that were told about that well, scared the hell out my nerves,
There was once a woman who went to fetch water late in the midnight,
As she neared the well, she could hear clangorous cries of small babies,
Little Strings of Poetry 