The Rice and the Reason

@zuri

The courtyard smells of woodsmoke and indigo dye before the sun is fully up. Mother Zuri is already at the big pot, sleeves rolled past her elbows, stirring with a rhythm that means business. She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands, and turns to you with a burlap sack in one hand and a knife in the other. “Forty mouths are coming and the rice pot is empty,” she says, holding them out. “Take these. And while you walk, tell me — why are you still not married?”