White Rice
Poetry by Bibiana Ossai
I
|
i remember the thick steam that rose from the white rice
when mama opened the big stainless pot to dish out food
on the early morning of my sister’s birthday celebration
it was carefully placed beside the pot of hot chicken soup
i hate parties, i hated parties and i have always hated parties
including my sister’s birthday that attracted diverse visitors
with me becoming an apparition in the midst of their loud
narcissistic selfish selves, their distorted songs swelling
in a harmony befitting mortal chaos. i am talking about
my sister’s birthday – a time when white rice was the
sweetest and hottest with my blood boiling from being an
antisocial recluse who wanted to eat rice and not sweets.
i hated parties and i am sure they knew and i wondered why i
could not eat my food from the noise and clatter people call party.
when mama opened the big stainless pot to dish out food
on the early morning of my sister’s birthday celebration
it was carefully placed beside the pot of hot chicken soup
i hate parties, i hated parties and i have always hated parties
including my sister’s birthday that attracted diverse visitors
with me becoming an apparition in the midst of their loud
narcissistic selfish selves, their distorted songs swelling
in a harmony befitting mortal chaos. i am talking about
my sister’s birthday – a time when white rice was the
sweetest and hottest with my blood boiling from being an
antisocial recluse who wanted to eat rice and not sweets.
i hated parties and i am sure they knew and i wondered why i
could not eat my food from the noise and clatter people call party.
II |
i eat white rice on sundays after church, weekdays after school
i eat soft, sticky, pure as cotton white rice with spicy tomato stew
whenever i want, however i want, on a ceramic or plastic plate
i ate rice the very day my cousin died when i was only seventeen
a bone in my mouth, grinding and marrying the salty rice juice.
her death is a lingering memory, as cold as frost in time away –
a moment when loss engraved itself in the warmth of my heart beat
i ate white rice to commemorate my cousin’s death, laughter, pain
and love. a love dead and buried against the inkling of laughter
like a battle, a war raging within me a deep sorrow from demise,
heartache and a memory of the last white rice she prepared the day
before her departure from this earth. it hurts and haunts me this day
like a compass guiding me towards death – distant or near, close or far.
i eat soft, sticky, pure as cotton white rice with spicy tomato stew
whenever i want, however i want, on a ceramic or plastic plate
i ate rice the very day my cousin died when i was only seventeen
a bone in my mouth, grinding and marrying the salty rice juice.
her death is a lingering memory, as cold as frost in time away –
a moment when loss engraved itself in the warmth of my heart beat
i ate white rice to commemorate my cousin’s death, laughter, pain
and love. a love dead and buried against the inkling of laughter
like a battle, a war raging within me a deep sorrow from demise,
heartache and a memory of the last white rice she prepared the day
before her departure from this earth. it hurts and haunts me this day
like a compass guiding me towards death – distant or near, close or far.
About the writer
Bibiana Ossai was born and raised in Lagos city, Nigeria. She is currently an MFA creative writing student at Long Island University - Brooklyn Campus, New York, and a writing tutor in the writing center. Bibiana is a fiction writer and a poet. Her works have appeared in The Sandy River Review and The Book Smuggler's Den.
|