Karen Umeora

United States

When I write, I get sucked into another blissful world.
I've loved to write my whole life, and I'm glad that I've found a community with a bunch of people like me.

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Feel free to come to me if you ever need advice on your writing!

Agụụ, the Man

June 16, 2020

    I could never hate it. The man won’t let me. The man that sits by the corner store. A place I shouldn’t go but go quite often. To look upon him is temptation enough. He yelps and snarls and grips both my arms.

“Just a fine penny will do” he screeches.

    But it’s never enough. A penny into the cup is the same as signing away your firstborn. I know that. I do.

    A penny slips in. Just garri. A classic. The poor man’s food some might call it. It has no smell. No taste. But the watery grains of cassava leave a weird sensation of “want” on your tongue.

    A dollar slips in. Akara. Healthy in quotation marks. It’s like a donut without the hole. And the dough, spared for blended beans. 

    A dozen slips in. Jollof Rice. There must be an anointing in the rice some might say. It is truly a food of seduction. The scent embraces the whole vicinity with piquancy. There’s a common story told by the way the sticky seedlings of rice glides through your mouth. A story of enchantment.

More. More. More!
Yam porridge, Agidi, Boli, Moi Moi, Okpa.

    The man at the corner store never lets up. He likes Nigerian cuisine. And my mom’s kitchen. A place of seduction with smells of savory goodness. A true Nigerian kitchen at heart. My relationship with the man at the corner store is one of love and hate. I know him as Agụụ na-adịghị agwụ agwụ, but you might know him as Hunger.

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  • June 16, 2020 - 8:50am (Now Viewing)

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