Fiction: I Am No Mountain, Part 1

–Page 3–

“ . . . Mum, where would I have found time to go to church between stuffing my belongings into four bags and trying to beat those damn minibus drivers on the road?” I dropped my luggage on the verandah.

“Lawks, girl. Come give yuh ole modda a hug.” Mum swung her arms around my neck. “And stop miserable up yuhself.”

Mum had a habit of spritzing Dad’s cologne behind her ears and under her arms. As she held me, I filled my lungs with the musky scent and felt at home. “Then don’t get on my case about church. This whole divorce process has left me tired and crabby.”

“Yuh want some chicken-foot soup?”

“Mum, you cook soup already?”

“It leave over from last night. I can warm up some for you.”

“I’ll just have coffee, thanks.”

“Yuh want Johnny cake wid di cawfy?”

“Mum, that’s white flour.”

“The two likkle piece a flour naw kill yuh.”

“Mum, just give me a slice of toast bread.”

“One so-so slice?”

I flared my nostrils at her.

“Awright, awright. Cho!” She grabbed a suitcase and an overstuffed tote bag from the verandah step and waddled inside towards my old bedroom. Her hairdo was the same—black, shiny and very Dorothy Dandridge. And her bowlegs made her already humongous hips seem wider.

“Mum, how your knees?”

“Well,” she said, resting the tote on the hallway floor and bending over to slap the two joints, “them coming to come. The likkle walking in the morning help wid di awt’ritis.”

cont… (click below)

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