Taking a boiled cassava root she says out loud “Fruit of the Earth”, before placing it in the the woduro.
Reaching for a plantain, “…and fruit of the sky”, then placing it in the woduro too.
Setting to work with the woma, pounding the mixture in silence, her jaw fixed in concentration.
The sun is high. Sweat begins to run freely off her brow.
But her focus remains undiminished, raising and dropping the woma, up and down, up and down until, gradually, it coalesces and from the mixing of sky and earth, a fine almost elastic dough begins to form.
With tender care, continuing to work the dough until at last the fufu is finished.
Flexing the cramp from her arms, she looks at her daughter.
“The Sun has barely risen on your marriage, my child. Do you understand?”
Her daughter nods.
“Good,” then smiling, “Do you think it was any different for your father and I? They are both good men. Now go and be reconciled.”