The Ether

Mama conceals confusion with glitter-tainted grins.

She’s using two hands to grip the pan and dropping 

pillared pittances onto our plates. Instead of incandescent

gratefulness we’ve lifted our noses at bartered blessings

of ugali and spinach. This demarks our Machiavellian shift. 

See, Mama and Baba leave us with hushed whispers and 

forlorn gazes. Four years will have passed before we’re 

racked with regret. Mama no longer switches the stove on 

high, ordering us to pour her miraculous maize into the 

pot overflowing with unspoken adoration. Rather, Mama

orders us to prepare our own pittances with startling

conviction. Once I have surpassed her height and my fingers

can wrap around her waist lifting her skirts high off the ground 

and I can see my diploma in the distance–I have prepared to

atone. Samahani Mama, I will say. I will wash affliction

off my skin with exfoliant until clear water stains red. 

Sweet Vindication. But Mama speaks in abstract gazes and bank

balances and Kalenjin, so I will save glitter-tainted

apologies for when I can afford translation.