okro and eba

Grandmother's wrinkled hands shaped the eba as mine trembled beside hers. Born in Chennai, raised in Lagos, I'd never learned our recipes properly until now. She whispered stories in Tamil, the ancient Brahmi script dancing through her words like ancestral memory. My friends had mocked my "strange food" once. Today, their messages flooded in: sulking they weren't invited, kissing emojis, requests for the recipe. The tantalizing aroma filled our small apartment. She smiled, pressing my palm against the warm dish. Suddenly, this wasn't just okro and eba. It was bridges built, generations honored, our diaspora family reconnecting through sustenance and love.