Anansesem: Telling Stories and Storytelling African Maternal Pedagogies by Onuora Ntozake Adwoa;

Author:Onuora, Ntozake Adwoa;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Demeter Press
Published: 2015-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

Bending Gender

THE SOUND OF THE SCHOOL BUS pulling up to the curb brought Sophia out of her writing. She rose to her feet, moved hurriedly toward the kitchen window, and peered out at the snow-covered ground. She noticed a distant patch of grass once carefully planted near the pavement now struggling defiantly under the weight of ice and snow.

The yellow and black school bus stopped. The door flung open. Ziggy scurried down the steps of the bus and zipped up the asphalted driveway. The tattered storm door screeched open then banged shut.

“Ziggy!” she called out in a shrill voice. “How many times must I tell you to hold the storm door when you enter the house?” She paused for a moment looking at him before saying, “And why do you have to run up the pathway like that? You could slip and fall on some black ice and crack your skull open. Then who do you think is going to have to sit all day on a bench at Sick Kids hospital with you?”

“Sorry Mamma,” he said chuckling faintly, his teeth glistening as a mischievous smile stretched across his chocolate brown-complected face. “And Mamma, don’t worry, you won’t have to go to the hospital with me,” he added as he slowly removed his winter coat, pealed off his grey hat, black scarf, and brown wool mittens.

“You know, pretty soon we won’t have anything left of that storm door.”

From the doorway of the kitchen, the sun’s phosphorescent glow bounced off her six feet frame casting a shadow that hovered about him where he stood undressing.

“The snow is going to come barreling in through that door right on top of us,” she beamed broadly, looking out at him with devoted eyes.

He finished undressing and swiftly whirled down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen where she stood. Leaning in toward her, his still cold hands enveloped her with a chilled embrace. They shared a faint smile.

“How was school today?” she asked.

“Good,” he responded flatly. He looked away, walked in the direction of the kitchen table, swung his backpack from his left shoulders, slung it over the arm of a chair before propping his bottom sideways over the same arm.

“Z,” she said pleadingly, “Please don’t weigh down the chair’s arm like that.”

“Sorry Mamma.”

“How about I make you a snack?” Without waiting for him to answer, she scurried towards the refrigerator, pulled out a bright blue milk box, then reached into the cupboard for a saucepan, his favourite purple mug and a teacup. Her hands moved rhythmically as she poured the milk, added a spoon of cocoa powder, some honey and cinnamon sticks into the pan. She paced casually back and forth from the fridge, to the stove, to the kitchen table where he sat, then back again to the stove where she eyed the liquid slowly simmering in the pot.

She stopped suddenly, and in a firm voice she said, “Okay you know the drill, get out your homework.”

He looked up at her and wrinkled his face.

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