It hit me one ordinary weekday as I wasn't pounding yam my apartment neighbors would revolt but I was cooking Not strictly my mother's recipe. I’d tweaked it adding a spice I’d discovered on a trip maybe
cooking it a bit faster than she’d ever approve of. As the familiar comforting scent filled my tiny kitchen, I realized this was my act and My small contribution to the river flowing from her kitchen and her mother's before her.
Our footprints aren't about erasing the path laid before us but they’re about walking that path forward in our own way, with our own stride maybe it’s blending the old prayer with a new understanding or Maybe it’s carrying the spirit of community into a digital world, Perhaps it’s simply choosing kindness as a guiding principle echoing an ancestor’s quiet generosity in a modern context.
My grandma’s mortar represents deep roots with the strength, nourishment, tradition. My slightly altered jollof recipe that's my own footprint It’s me saying, "I honour where I come from and I’m also here, now, adding my own flavour."
It’s an ongoing dance Sometimes I step firmly on the roots drawing deep strength in Other times step out ltentatively at first leaving my own mark The beauty is in the connection My footprint only has meaning because of the ground it presses into ground made fertile by centuries of roots.
So, I’ll keep the mortar I might not use it daily, but it sits where I can see it as a reminder And I’ll keep cooking, keep living, keep trying to walk with intention. Because the story isn't just about growing where we've been planted. It's about how we , where we tread and the unique path we blaze while carrying that deep essential soil within us.
Image generated by META AI
