This anthology includes the experiences of a West African living in a Western country, including influence from Arabic and Islamic culture.
Please note that each part has a different speaker and is thus not a continuation of the prior unless stated...
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Maama just took a shower. When she emerges from the bathroom like an angel in the mist, the steam clears around her to showcase God's greatest creation. It smells like vanilla and warmth, a tranquillity taking in the air. When she opens the door to her bedroom, I follow her. Her nightstand is laid with tins of oils, creams, and perfumes. Her room is like a market with the richest assortment consisting of trinkets from all around the globe. I used to help myself to them, as a girl, whenever I wanted to feel what it was like to be a woman. She perches on the edge of her bed and picks out one tiny bottle of misk. One fingertip dips inside the dark brown oil and draws a necklace around her bare, freckled skin. The room smells exquisite. I always viewed her as an expensive lady with immaculate taste. I take a seat behind her and open my palm to her. This routine is automatic. She places a ball of hard shea butter lotion in my hand. I always did my best to melt it as much as possible between my palms so I could evenly spread it evenly on her back. My hands are cold; every time I try to touch her, she flinches. Yet, to me, she is so warm, like the West African sun rising unwaveringly; even when the clouds try to take away her shine. She tells me to eat more spice in my food, but it hurts my belly too much. My hands massage her skin until the butter abides. I admire her birthmark that stands out amongst her freckles peppering her back like firmament, and wonder if she knows it's there, how unique it makes her, if she ever thinks about it, or if she's oblivious to its existence, like the invisible stars in the city of a polluted sky.
