jenn

jenn: fish

Sunday afternoon, my yaay returns from the market after being gone all day. And with her are buckets and buckets of fish—at least one hundred! I watch as the empty them all out onto the kitchen floor until the ground is slick and slimy with fish juices, silvery dead-eyed scaly fish everywhere, piled up into enormous mounds. I watch as Mbene and Gaye slide slippery fish, three at a time, into yellow plastic bags. Flies zing through the air. Fish for the month, my yaay informs me. It might look unappetizing now, but I know all these fish will turn into delicious meals later.

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