My nails are stained a bright yellow-green as snot slowly trickles from my nose. My teary eyes and burning lips questions my brain about its choice of lunch. The remnants of my meal taunt me, laughing at my tear-stained face. “Hah! You couldn’t do it”. The spicy curry staining my white bowl looks at me with a face of triumph, rejoicing and bragging about my failure to contain my salty stream of tears. I stare at the half-full bowl of green stew; the overwhelming scent of cumin and masala intermingled with the dominating scent of wiri wiri pepper assaults my nostrils. Tickling my nose hairs, luring a sneeze out of my running nose. Another triumphant laugh echoes in my ears. “Haha, better next time, little girl.” A half-eaten roti accompanies the wicked stew “You’re not fit to eat me. I deserve to be eaten by the best of the best, little girl.” They continue to laugh, raving about their unmatched superiority.

A scoff escapes my lips; tears no longer escape my closed eyes, and the trickle of snot is no more. Instead, a look of disbelief covers my face. “You think you’re all that,” the statement flows out my tingling lips before I realize another rushes off my tongue, “You were dry and crusty, not like that beautiful, soft and fluffy roti that the other children flock to see. I only attempted to eat you because you looked lonely and desperate for attention.” My comment silences the imaginary laughs. The dry, flaking roti, desperately in need of some TLC, is shocked by the sudden statement labeling it the worst out of the litter. A snicker is heard, then another, followed by a burst of boisterous laughter.

“Hah, she called you dry—Dry Roti, Dry Roti,” the curry taunts. The half-eaten fried bread no longer looks boastful but ashamed. My attention is now on the jolly curry whose laugh interrupted my intense glaring contest with the angered bread. “ What are you laughing at? You weren’t that good either. The only flavor I could taste was the heat of the pepper. I don’t know why you act so salty when you lack basic flavor. Your Indian ancestors would be so ashamed to see how you turned out”. He no longer laughs; instead, a string of flavorful curse words is heard, interrupting the deafening silence. He sways his imaginary arms trying to grab hold of me. Tired of his crazy tirade, I pick up the angry stew and his annoyed accomplice, bringing them to their final resting place, my food waste bin. The string of curse words continues into the abyss of discarded and rotten food, with an angry call for the “little girl” heard now and then. “Little girl, little girl, come back….”

-Sheanna M.