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Adedoyin Kayode - HOME-MADE MEAL

& like the thudding of a pestle, my heart beats into shreds.

How does love in the family taste when it spreads on the tongue?

I do not know the aroma of peace; all that is cooked in my home is war.


Last night, mum served dad yells for dinner

& he feasted on her with slaps.


I wonder if a melee is some sort of an entrée

because all that is served at home is violence.


Lately, I have learnt to process a different type of meal;

a type of viand chosen in my parents' house.


We fry curses like pepper,

Boil anger like water,

& stir a woman to unconsciousness with the spatula of blows and jabs,

which tears love apart, splashing water to the eyes.

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