At Suhoor, her mother tries to wake her,
Pats her gently first, then full-on shakes her.
Steaming rice, an omelette and moru curry
Plated up on the table await her.
Adults go off to work, caffeine-deprived.
Children sit in classrooms, groggy-eyed.
Mornings go by uneventful,
The occasional tum-rumble aside.
Sleep, hunger and thirst crescendo.
Calm and composure fly out the front door.
The afternoon becomes the real test —
Either get through it or get done for.
Fasting and furious, her mother rushes,
Tipping or dropping everything she touches.
Clanging pots and flying spoons,
Sharp-edged knives slipping out of her clutches.
Time begins to tighten its noose.
Slick with sweat, hair a little loose,
Her mother dashes from kitchen to table,
With samosas, fritters, fruits and juice.
After much wait, Maghrib commences.
The dates and water are only pretenses.
Plates with oily, sugary, savoury goodness
knock them out of their senses.
Her mother sips her humble tari kanji,
Despising (enjoying?) the graceless gluttony,
Shaking her head, she warns them
“You won’t survive Taraweeh.”
And verily, at Taraweeh
Their full stomachs they heave.
Stand, bow, prostrate and sit,
Painfully but gainfully.
——-
Off to study in a strange land,
She stares at her Lays pack and Pepsi can.
She misses Ifthar with her family
And food made by her mother’s hands.
Life takes her farther away.
Mile by mile, day by day.
Marriage, motherhood, migration,
Become and define her new way.
But Ramadans are, as she’s found,
Legacies that are passed on down
From mothers to their daughters
For memories and traditions to bring round.
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