Her mornings start before the sun,
the plantains swinging from her head
like golden pendulums counting borrowed time.
She balances them like a crown —
a queen in a kingdom of peeling hands and smoky pots.
By the roadside, she calls out to passersby:
“Plantain for your beans!
Sweet like the smile of your first love!”
Her voice rises over the honk of buses,
the hiss of frying oil, the city’s endless, groaning heartbeat.
At night, when her children press against her side,
she talks about a stall with a roof,
where rain cannot soak her wares
and the wind cannot scatter her coins.
She dreams of a day her hands are clean,
soft like the pages of her daughter’s school book.
But for now, she slices each plantain precisely
watching the caramelised edges curl in protest.
The customers complain if they burn,
so she’s quick, but careful—
balancing survival on a knife’s blade.
She wonders if the gods measure success
by how many plantains she sells,
or by the dreams she refuses to let die.
