Asante mama .

About this work

Every evening, my mother’s table was more than just a marketplace stall. It was an altar of love, a sanctuary where comfort answered every call. These hands, weathered by experience and the sweat of a long day’s toil, Never forgot to offer a fruit of solace, rooted in our sacred soil. ​A single grape received in a child’s hand was a symbol of grace, A blessing of care that built the foundation of the lives we now embrace. We celebrate 'The Hidden Vintage'—the unsung trade and silent sacrifice, That transformed us into the heroes of today, through hands that paid the price