Lois emerged from the bedroom, drawn out by the smell of breakfast and coffee. The scent pulled her toward the kitchen, where Clark stood by the counter, his usual bright smile already in place. But today, the warm aroma of spices mingled with the coffee, something rich and unfamiliar that made her pause.
“Morning,” she mumbled, reaching for her mug. Her eyes landed on a tray of golden-brown pastries cooling on the counter, next to it was the bag with the number 21.
“Did you sleep well, honey?”
She gave him a kiss on his cheek and answered “Yes.” She then proceeded to untie the string. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed against something smooth and solid. She pulled out a small, intricately carved drum ornament.
“A drum?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Clark nodded, his smile widening. “Today’s tradition comes from Ghana. Communities there celebrate the days leading up to Christmas with drumming and dancing. But it’s also a time for sharing food, especially treats like these.” He gestured to the pastries.
Lois reached for one and took a cautious bite. Her eyes widened as the sweet, nutty flavor hit her tongue. “What is this?”
“It’s called atwemo,” Clark explained. “They’re fried pastries, sometimes flavored with nutmeg. Perfect for snacking during celebrations.”
“You made these?” she asked, a hint of admiration in her voice.
“I did,” he said with a grin. “I thought we could bring some to share tonight. There’s a Ghanaian community hosting a drumming and dancing event and they invited us to join. Sharing food is very important in their culture, so I thought it would be nice to bring something too.”
---
The community center buzzed with energy, the steady pulse of drums drawing Lois and Clark into a room alive with color and movement.
Drummers sat in a circle, their synchronized rhythms filling the space, while dancers in vibrant fabrics moved with graceful precision, their bodies telling stories through each step.
Clark carried the tray of atwemo to a long table laden with steaming dishes. Lois lingered hesitantly until a smiling woman approached.
“Did you make these?” she asked, gesturing to the pastries.
“My husband did,” Lois admitted with a small, sheepish smile. “I can only eat them.”
The woman laughed warmly. “Well, if you’re willing, we can teach you to make something now.”
Lois blinked. “Now? I mean… sure.” Her insecurities stirred, but she didn’t want to offend.
She soon found herself at a table with ripe plantains, nutmeg, flour, and oil. “We’ll show you how to make kakro, plantain fritters. Quick, easy, and delicious!”
Clark caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Lois rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.
Guided by the women, she peeled and mashed the plantains, added spices and flour, and carefully shaped the mixture into balls.
“It’s all about balance,” one explained. “Too much flour, and it’s heavy. Too little, and it falls apart.”
As the fritters sizzled in hot oil, the woman placed a golden one on a plate. “You’re a natural. And as we say, The fufu is never too hot for the fingers of the one who needs it.”
Lois paused, her hands still resting on the bowl of mashed plantains. “What does that mean?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“It means when you truly desire something, no challenge feels too great. You’ll find a way, no matter how hard it seems.”
The words struck a deep chord. Lois glanced at Clark, happily chatting with the drummers and felt the proverb resonate far beyond the task at hand. Could the women sense her unspoken hopes, or was it just her own heart speaking?
Later, carrying the plate of fritters to the table, she beamed with quiet pride. The warm, sweet flavor of her first bite felt like more than success - it tasted like possibility.
---
As the evening wound down, Lois found herself lingering by the table where the fritters had been such a hit. The woman who had guided her earlier approached, holding a small container.
“For you,” she said warmly, handing it over. “After all, eating by yourself leaves you hungry, but sharing makes you full.”
Lois blinked. “That’s so kind. But… it means more than just sharing food?”
The woman nodded. “Oh, yes. It means life is richer when we share it with others, our joys, our struggles, everything. What you give comes back to you in ways you might not expect.”
Lois stared at the container in her hands, her heart swelling. When she looked up at the woman, she could only utter “Thank you,” before being pulled into a warm hug.
The woman smiled. “You have a good spirit,” she said softly. “Remember, the fufu is never too hot. Whatever you truly want, you’ll find the strength to hold it.”
Lois froze for just a moment, the words sinking in as the embrace surrounded her like a quiet reassurance. Then, she hugged back, her voice low. “Thank you. For everything.”
The woman stepped back with a knowing smile, leaving Lois to wonder how much had been noticed - and how much had simply been felt.
Lois glanced at Clark, who was already helping to clean up, his easy smile lighting up the room for her. The meaning sank in deeply: her life with Clark was already full, but she couldn’t help wondering how much fuller it might become if her suspicions proved true.
---
Back at home, Lois placed the container on the counter and turned to Clark. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft. “You were right. This was… more than amazing.”
Clark slipped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Christmas is about connection, Lois. Whether it’s through drumming, dancing, or learning to make fritters with strangers who become friends.”
She smiled, leaning into him for a kiss. “Connection, huh? Well, if it means more moments like this, I think I could get used to it.”
