A mill a day, keeps poverty away- at least, for just a while. This is the foudation my family has been living on for as long as I can remember. My name is Nana Minka Dzokoto. My cry first broke out in this world on the dawn of 17th of October as the son of Mrs. Edwina Dzokoto, a corn miller, and a man resting in his grave. I am 5'10 in height with a hole in heart I had already decided to live with; because I was convinced that I would have left this earth before we could afford any treatment. It was a poverty-ridden home that welcomed my black-skinned body every afternoon after school, and I regretted it. How here? Why here? I wished for more. There was no provision that lasted beyond the day's needs, let alone have an asset to brag about.
But one thing surprised me about Mama. She would always give care to every dough she handled like she had no problems; no matter the time of day, the pressure on her or even the corn it was prepared with. I didn't understand why she wouldn't be so gentle with it and move faster, especially when the dough stiffens. But she would still give it all the time it needed to get into it's appropriate state.
Anyway, the smell from the kitchen is teasing my stomach. We'll put a wrap here.
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