Ereba

When the ancestors first crossed from Yurumein, they carried two things they refused to lose: their language, and the round, white cassava bread called ereba.

Making ereba is slow work. Women grate the root, squeeze the poison from the pulp, sift the flour, and bake the rounds on a clay comal called a budare.

Every step is sung. The songs are old enough that not every word is understood — but the rhythm is the memory.

To break ereba with another person is to say: you belong with us. Refusing it is a quiet sorrow. Sharing it is a quieter promise.