Morning Cup,Ancestral Memory

Morning Cup, Ancestral Memory

It is early morning. The world is quiet.

I walk softly to the kitchen,

the hush still clinging to the air.

I fetch fresh water,

cool, alive,

a silent offering to the day.

Steam rises.

My tea is ready.

I return to my chair—

the chair that knows me well,

that cradles my stillness.

I sit.

I sip.

I feel the warmth travel through me,

a gentle current of remembrance.

The liqueur glows amber in the light,

and suddenly—

Africa.

Africa wraps herself around me

like the softest kente cloth.

And there she is the African woman.

Erect.

Poised.

Powerful.

She walks with grace carved into her bones,

her spine a straight river of pride.

On her head, a basket full of yams,

bananas, perhaps firewood—

the weight a crown, never a burden.

Her balance, flawless.

Her rhythm, ancient.

Her walk, poetry in motion.

Behind her, a child swaddled against her back,

heart to heart, pulse to pulse,

wrapped tight in a cloth that tells stories,

carries lullabies.

Her hands are not idle.

They stir. They crush. They form.

In a wooden mortar,

she pounds fufu with cadence,

each strike a song of lineage.

She turns over the kenke leaves,

she lifts the lid from the stew pot,

and the aroma of onions, tomatoes, and peppers

rises like incense to the ancestors.

She does it all

with no machine,

just fire, just muscle, just will,

just the memory passed on

from mother to daughter,

from grandmother to child.

She fetches water with her sisters.

Bare feet on earth.

They laugh. They speak in proverb.

They carry not only pots on their heads,

but stories, secrets, sorrows, and hope.

They move together like a flock of birds—

strong, beautiful, never lost.

I sip my tea,

and I honor them.

I honor the woman who walks miles

for the day’s beginning.

I honor the mother whose back

is both cradle and bridge.

I honor the firekeeper,

the meal-bringer,

the story-holder.

I honor the drumbeat in her soul,

the fierce elegance in her stride,

the quiet strength in her eyes.

She is not distant from me.

She is me.

She is my beginning,

my lineage,

my breath.

And so,

as the steam curls above my cup,

and the day stretches open,

I say a prayer:

May I walk with her grace.

May I carry my life like she carries the basket—

upright, balanced,

and full of sacred purpose.