Tèmítọ́pẹ́ Ọ̀jẹ́délé-Adéjùmọ̀

‘Abimibola!” My father-in-law called.

“Sah!” I answered, moving with a lazy trod.

How does a 70-year-old go on daily

Calling a polysyllabic name so gaily?

If I have refused to be called “Bola”,

It is only because I don’t want no bother

For my life as per say I be Ajeboha.

But this man that manned my man likes palava.

The way he calls “Abimibola” like it’s a sound,

Shouting at the top of his voice like a hound.

Mtchew, just imagine why I was called:

Baba said my culinary skill is flawed.

“How have I wronged you Abimibola,

That for once in this house you cannot prepare amala.

Indomie Dodo shaaa every time I’m here …”

“But Baba I also serve it with beer…”

“And so? Is this how you feed my son?”

“I serve him his with peas, lettuce and sweet corn.”

Click here to read more of food poems in the Anthology “A Woman’s Pot, A Man’s Stomach”.

“Why not feed him like men of his class?”

“Baba if he wants that he knows the way to Mama Cass.”

“Egbami! Which kain wife be dis?”

“The kind that knows how to kiss,

Twerk and feed her man with blossoming tits.”

With that I left like I had just made some hits

As  Baba gaped on, fuming but defeated.

It’s been two months since that was incited;

And a month since my man dropped a note:

“I’m tired of Indomie Dodo,” he wrote.

Baby please come home and calm this emotional quake;

You seem forever lost in your fattening break.