The Akara woman

Seasoning shall drop from your sauce pan
It's not its taste but the way it's shaken from her hands
Then we sat in the crisps of our fears, with reality on our palms and dreams on our lips.
Eating hunger while we drank thirst in cups of no satisfaction, it's past evening time when we will hear the metals clash from her buckets to the ladle that suffers the burning oil.
Then we will pick up boredom from the unbuttoned shirts of tiredness and pick up the cowrie of exchange, that same paper where dead men rule.
It's like June in August, September in December,  where smiles evolve into laughter and tears of joy as well.
We will sit in request prior to the price of heads on silver plated brass ordering crunch from flesh too.
And confessing the love I shower on this damsel, he'll tell how bed kicks rolled blankets over them with tales
With suitcases of feelings all poured as fire heats black pots and spoon serves sauce.
All I ever wanna talk about feels comfortable sharing here by this same circle
The air becomes conducive and my lips will swagger like it's taste to alcohol.
How I hate her fat, or like her gossiping lips, the lower shame she feels during intimacy, that's my story.
We all sat there and she does not nod or talks, all she does is serve and later aims higher in achieving our pleasure on her warm bench.
Tell me the truth what has the Akara woman told you?