Last meal

Last Meal

By George Amadi

Squatting, in unqualified awe of a nearby Iroko tree,

Exhausted, as a result of a long, fruitless outing,

Our cooking fire crackling, now and then,

Lighting up the sky of a village in the jungle,

Cocooned by impregnable darkness,

Crickets bamboo grey, a handful,

Giant praying mantis, a score or so,

Half-dozen grass-hoppers khaki brown

Roasted in the company of Tilapia fish,

Fleshy mushrooms, a trio, all chopped up,

Crowded out by sliced Ugba,

African castor-oil bean, in dried pepper decked,

Garnished with a dash of red palm-oil, by a

Sprinkling of salt for taste topped,

Washed down with frothy palm-wine,

Nutritious, if drunk before noon,

My grand-mother and I, ravaged by hunger,

Unbeknownst to me, our last meal together,

Two months before she passed on,

An unusual dinner, gobbled,

Upon returning empty-handed

From snail-hunting

One dry-season night in Fifty-Six

Lagos, June 3, 2014