Status Updates From The Settler's Cookbook: A M...

‘Under my bed there it was my seemingly little suitcase
inside it my few precious belongings.
A present from my grand mum, an evenly shaped
light blue stone with white spots spread all over it, a familiar
piece of early morning sky with stars twinkling in the palm of my hand
A photo of my mother smiling at me in despair
waving and wondering
A broken watch with frozen hands.’
Aya Ata :)

‘My mother was raised in the coastal town of Dar-es-Salaam, meaning ‘abode of peace’ in Arabic. Like Mombasa, it was a cliché of seaside gorgeousness. The lobsters and crabs were slow of movements, birds slothfully hung around. The sea was part of the music of her soul: her favourite Hindu song was about the sounds of melancholy waves, traces of sadness in the sand.’ - this book is so enjoyable to read :)

‘Their gods had gifted them a piece of earthly paradise in recognition of noble deeds in previous lives. In Milton’s Paradise Lost, Adam is shown Mombasa by the archangel Michael. I remember Uganda as improbably lush, fecund and green, as green as I have ever seen, the colour of life itself. As if the seeds were magic, exuberant flowers rose.’ - Similar to how Liri described it :)

‘All seat-belt signs are ignored. Bottles of sparkling Vimto are offered by strangers to strangers with the merest wipe of the neck; Tupperware boxes are passed round containing samosas, dhal bhajias, chilli bhajias, home-made mithai, fried mogo, bright chutneys that inevitably drip. They savour the last tastes of the tropical life they will never know again.’ - flight from Kampala to Stansted. Food and memory.