You sat on the low kitchen stool , stretched forward your legs and crossed them at your ankles. That always made you feel like a woman. It made you feel like you were getting ready to bath your new-born and made you imagine rubbing Shea butter over his supple bottom. It made your eyes sting with tears, just as now, the onions you were grinding in the earthenware pot taunted you.
You squeezed the tomatoes absent mindedly after you thought the kpakpo shito and the onions had married well enough, like you had never done. You squashed the first, then the second and then the third. You squeezed the last one a bit too tightly, trying to match the grip of sorrow on your heart, and red juice splashed on your thighs, like blood, like his blood. You wiped it non-chalantly with your thumb and continued grinding your pepper, like you continued living your life. After all, all you needed was cold water to wash away the blood. And you had plenty of it flowing from your nearly frozen heart.