With both knees bent near the bathroom door, Agaekwe held a wooden brush in her right hand. Its bristles, scattered and weak, bore witness to years of service. She sprinkled more soapy water across the remains of the old, cemented floor and squatted once more to scrub the bathroom floor, shi shi shi. She moved the brush in circular patterns as…
With both knees bent near the bathroom door, Agaekwe held a wooden brush in her right hand. Its bristles, scattered and weak, bore witness to years of service. She sprinkled more soapy water across the remains of the old, cemented floor and squatted once more to scrub the bathroom floor, shi shi shi. She moved the brush in circular patterns as she scrubbed, stepping backward carefully with each stroke to avoid treading on the freshly cleaned surface. As the only girl in a family of five children, the burden of the Saturday clean-up fell largely on her, regardless of her brothers’ ages.
The street hummed with the noise of children queuing up at Mama Chidera’s shop for akara and akamu. In most African homes, this was the traditional Saturday meal: beans ground with a mortar and pestle until smooth, seasoned with onion, pepper, and crayfish, then molded by hand and dropped into hot oil until golden brown. Though akara was often seen as a staple for the poor due to its affordability, Mama Chidera’s was exceptional, stuffed with boiled eggs that only the middle class could truly afford.
No one detested akara; it might have seemed like food for the poor because it was very affordable, yet the rich equally queued for this particular akara ball. Mama Chidera added boiled eggs to hers, which made it exceptional, and only the middle class could afford to buy the akara with boiled egg, while those who could not bought the normal akara, which tasted just as great. Agaekwe stretched her aching back. “I am almost done,” she murmured to herself. Only the toilet was left, then the market.
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