Itsy Bitsy Spider Mwangileni Kampanga

10:35pm It's late.

I dry my muddy shoes on mum’s repurposed doormat, and search my inconveniently small handbag for house keys that I swear I had.

“Hey mum! Odi! What’s for dinner?” I ask, now entering the kitchen after my silent battle with the front door Mum is making herself dinner I’m surprised to see she’s still in her office attire too, wearing a black dress that hugs her small frame She looks at me and smiles softly It’s the kind of smile that greets me warmly but is also born of my mother’s particular brand of disapproval “Abeni, where have you been sweetie?” She says, shaking her head. “You know it’s a weeknight…” she trails off, her voice gives away her slight fatigue. Fatigue from the day or from me? It's difficult to tell, but I can't bring myself to respond. Mum turns to look at me as I rest my laptop bag against the coffee table before reclining on her lush suede couch. Feet up, of course, on the armrest towards the kitchen. I close my eyes and inhale, listening to the clunky rattling of pots and pans, as mum picks out her favourite cookware She continually chooses to use the same dented pot to cook nshima, our national dish, her comfort food I don't care for it Not the pot, but for nshima The carb-rich meal has a silky and smooth texture You eat the glorified porridge with an assortment of condiments like relish and vegetables but to me it has a gritty, grainy consistency so I haven't had nshima for years.

We haven't been back to Zambia for years. I’d like to go back, I think, but I’m not convinced. I quickly brush away that creeping thought. It emerged like a spider. But just before the spider has the chance to make itself at home in my discomfort, I hear an indistinct murmur of voices The chatter draws me back into our living room To my surprise, the TV is on and mum is fixated on the news, her abandoned dinner plate on her lap I strain my neck to view the broadcast, although it’s nothing that concerns me “We’ve made everything so much easier for you, baby,” she starts off, and I already know where she’s heading: back to her future. The future she would’ve had if she had the opportunities I currently have. I give her a moment. Mum launches into her nostalgic fantasy. Take off! “Firstly,” she continues, but I’ve already switched off. I know we are fighting different battles. She can see hers, however I can only feel mine. That same tiny spider extends its tiny feathered leg into my consciousness * Its sticky web stifles me and I realise I haven’t spoken since I arrived home Zsófi, bless them, said you can hold both fear and love at the same time Does mum know? Not that a mother should know She has too much onher plate