She was much older now and couldn't sit under the sun for too long. The shelter of palm leaves no longer provided as much shade as she would have liked. She would rather sit inside. She liked the cold tiling on the terrazzo floor on her feet. She liked the comfortable seat she could lose herself in.

Her daughter had married a fancy man. She still called him by that nickname given when she wasn’t too keen: Fancy. Now however, the nickname denoted a kind of adoration: she was grateful for the life he had given her daughter. The life he had by extension, given her.

They were talking as she passed about Hearts and Kotoko – football teams, she knew that much – under a large mango tree.

She entered the kitchen slowly, pleased as always by its beige walls and marble tops. In the far corner of the room, next to a door which led onto the backyard, her seat was ready.

Her granddaughter and friends were already cooking, pausing to greet her as she sat. She had no desire to engage with anything outside of the walls of this house, perfectly happy to sit in this kitchen with gadgets she had no knowledge or will to learn how to use. She was happy to sit with these young women, these beautiful young women, for whom life looked on the boil already. Soon to be prepared, plated ready to eat.

You dey chop life fine fine eh. Dey all chop life fine fine.

The way she laughed to herself was not lost on the young women..

Blessed are those who see someone in their whole uniform of time, may they inherit spicy 60's gossip.

One of the girls rushed to the living room for a photo album, and pulled out a picture of herself dressed in a bright orange shift, holding the hanging fruit of an orange tree, looking askance at the setting sun...

oh what a dream / oh what sweet joy / pass me those things called pickles / let me throw you into history / let me sink with you / this terrazzo is warm to the feet now / cut rock and examine its innards / cut time and examine its kidneys /cut an onion / and no one wants to hear about layers anymore / just cook / shut up and kiss me / sit down and tell me / ananses𝜀m ese sie.

As the women stirred their many pots, chopped the myriad of vegetables and shouted over the blender, they looked on with interest, considering another life, considering another moment as they dabbed daintily at their perspiring foreheads.

Please speak to us of those cocoa butter days / those hot comb / candle burning the ends of braids / hot water soak days.

At this moment, a delirium came over her. One which made her feel full of generosity and desire. For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she wanted these women, so much younger than her, to know her. She wanted, in a sense, to give something of herself and her learning to them.

Akokɔ besa / Chicken will finish /Basil if you’re boring / leftovers are punished / I mean leftovers sit stewing / I mean who even talks about leftovers anymore / it’s not christmas

She looked out the open door to her daughter already sweating with effort in the heat, picking akokɔ besa from the corners of the house.. She was annoyed by how her daughter wasn’t grinding the herbs into the onions, just leaving them to sit on top of the chicken. The realisation, then, that her daughter had considered basil for a long time, she had considered all the ingredients of her favourite dishes, she had most surely ripped, ground, minced, smoked basil into meals, so maybe she’ll talk to her of the specific benefits of grinding basil. She was never going to agree that not grinding the basil was okay, but she would indulge the conversation.

And isn’t that one beautiful conference / to discuss quite simply / the inclusion of basil in a dish / said all the aunties somewhere.

The kitchen is all balance. It’s all a contortion of limbs, stretching over each other to reach the pestle or the bowl; it’s the hands which break fish’s head into the ground peppers and the basil; it’s the little finger which dabs, the tip of a tongue; the lips which smack and say: ‘these peppers bite’ / ‘these peppers have an appetite’ / ‘these peppers’ ;it’s the bowl, held out to a cousin, who dabs herself, asks for the mixture to be put to one side because what else can be done right now, they need to keep cooking.

And the song must go on / and the beat must go on / no whisper of oil / left alone to play a solo / only an orchestra / only a multitude of sounds / the thump and grind / the sharp against dull / it must go on / but listen / you’ll find small songs within a cacophony.

She loved the small moments between cooking. When they made small dishes, or she could roast a few garden eggs on the edge of a coal pot. She loved to skim the hot oil from the boiling stew, to pour it over gari.

The men are still sat on their plastic chairs under the mango tree, taking large swigs of palm wine. Their bellies are shining with sweat, defeated by the August sun. Not so fancy anymore. A grin pulls at the corners of her mouth.

‘All these bitches is my sons’, she thinks.

A cousin splinters firewood with an axe, shoving them in between three stones, and balances a cauldron atop.

oh my goodness, i finally understand the trinity

And she calls her boy and snatches the fan he is waving over his face, playfully hits him on the head with it. ‘Tend the wood please. Make us a fire’.

The boy begins to ball yesterday’s newspaper, and places it purposefully amongst the kindling. He fans slowly and methodically and the wood crackles with light. He watches her hands as she slices thin strips of onion into hot oil; admires the strength of her arms as the banku gets tougher in the cauldron. With her bare feet on the tongs, a wooden spoon two thirds her height in her hand turning, she massages the corn dough, persuading it into being smooth and supple with her strength. She only knows three words of the pop songs she sings as she works, happy to hum, the rest.

Someone throws dirt over spilt stew.