The Exchange is the Weekly’s poetry corner, where a poem or piece of writing is presented with a prompt. Readers are welcome to respond to the prompt with original poems, and pieces may be featured in the next issue of the Weekly.
my moms dating advice, as told by jollof rice by Chima “Naira” Ikoro
After Second Generation Ars Poetica by Monica Sok
i don’t know the difference between scotch bonnet and habanero pepper. all i know is that the first time i made my own pot of jollof rice, i decided it was time to reclaim all the meals i’ve eaten that weren’t spicy enough. my mom, watching me approach the pantry with concern, said no matter how hot she made the food i would add more before even tasting it. didn’t even give the soup a chance to touch my tongue—everything and everyone was so mild. when i went to the grocery store my freshman year of college, i decided that this time my food would meet my plate ready for me. took an entire pepper, plucked the stem and added it to the smallest pot of rice.
(For reference, one scotch bonnet was enough to spice a meal for six, according to my mothers expertise.)
the pupil has not become the teacher, she has become the example. my food was so hot, i couldn’t hear. turns out i wasn’t listening anyway. but i ate the whole pot in protest. suffocated my stubbornness in defiance. i scooped and i chewed, and i chewed. i came up for air, and kept eating.
i don’t know the difference between scotch bonnet and habanero pepper, but my mother does. i ask her how she knows as we talk on the phone while i grocery shop. she tells me i’m worried about the wrong things.
Prompt:
“Write about a necessary lesson only experience could teach you.”
This could be a poem, journal entry, or a stream-of-consciousness piece. Submissions could be new or formerly written pieces.
Submissions can be sent to bit.ly/ssw-exchange or via email to chima.ikoro@southsideweekly.com
Featured below is a reader response to a previous prompt. The last poem and prompt can be found online.
Losing it by Ahnika Franklin
Watch my hands shake,
The flame flickers the same way in
The sanctity of the pyramid of your hands.
The wind knows something I don’t.
Watch me,
Embarrassed, scrambling after
I’ve just spilled something, scattering
Across the floor,
Messy and embarrassingly uncontained.
Watch my unraveling,
This vessel of water, blood, and so many
Feelings is no more.
And now there’s a mess on the floor,
So impolite, messy, and embarrassingly uncontained.
Would you still love me if I lost it?
Left the mess of me until I’m ready
To be whole again, if I suddenly became
A shit ton of marbles spilling all over the floor,
Bouncing off the walls, sneaking under your feet.
Would you cherish every one?
Chima Ikoro is the Weekly’s Community Builder.
The third chunk of the poem instantly gave me goose bumps! Keep it coming Ahnika ✨