Poetry: Festival of the Golden Spatula

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

I am sitting in the study where the Daikin breathes
like a sleeping leopard,
looking out at a map of a country
I only visit by motorcade.

It occurs to me, between sips of cold Acqua Panna,
that the young people outside are vastly overcomplicating things.
They clamour for tech hubs,
they speak of digital infrastructure and artificial intelligence,
as if the future were something you could download.

How much simpler to return to the oil and the iron skillet.
To the humble bean cake swelling in its bath of hot grease,
or the groundnut pressed into a hard, golden ring.

I have authorized some kola for this very purpose,
brand-new kola that does not need to be repaid.
It takes so little, really, to be an entrepreneur.
Just a three-legged stool by the open gutter,
a smoky fire to redden the eyes,
and the patience to watch corn turn black over charcoal.

While the Iranians are busy with their drones
humbling the dwarfed bully
and the Chinese are assembling microchips,
our youth could be standing at the roadside,
waving cardboard fans at the evening breeze.

My husband shall soon declare a new public holiday,
the grand Festival of the Golden Spatula,
where the finest roadside fryers are invited to the villa
to receive national honours for their crunchy tenacity,
their medals glinting beneath state marquees.

It is a beautiful vision, if you think about it.
A whole generation smelling of peanut oil and woodsmoke,
perfectly content, perfectly occupied,
while the rest of us drive by,
rolling up our tinted glass
to check our offshore balances.