Sandwiches Anonymous

At 5:00am my blissfully dark world was shattered by the indignant cries of Nne, the woman who looked after me while my mother worked. At 6:00am I was hauled into the bath tub where a bucket and a smooth, coloured bowl - not elegant, working taps - would provide the icy water that would wash my skin in harsh slaps. And at 6:30am I stood ready in my thick cotton uniform, prepared to begin a day of rigourous learning in the blistering hot weather. This torture was somewhat alleviated by the fabric bag Nne would place in my hands moments before I was shoved out the door.

Within the faded cloth enclosure rested the most flavourful delight known to man: my mother's homemade tomato sandwiches. Perhaps I was beguiled by the prospects of feeling more connected to my mother through her cooking, but when my Year Six English instructed us to write an essay about our 'favourite things' I poured my inchoate emotions onto paper in descriptions of ripe tomatoes bursting with juice and the plastic container that usually smelt faintly of my mother's perfume. Imagine my mortification when my Teacher proffered my mother the graded work at the termly parent-teacher conference. I had received my best score in a creative writing assignment thus far,...