ONE MEAL CHANGED ME

My neighbor cooked rice and gave my siblings and I some. It was as if she was from another planet. The rice was ten times more delicious that the tears I boiled in the kitchen. “Oh my, where has this woman been?”, my junior brother, Odion, said.

My mom had traveled to go handle some things in the village and my neighbor had just moved into her house recently; it was just directly opposite our room. My three siblings and I stayed with my dad who was always busy changing shifts at his workplace.

On this fateful day, he was on morning shift and he had left as early as 6:30am. Being the good father he was, he made sure we had everything to cook and make a good meal. He bought a bag of rice prior to this time and my neighbor’s eyes were on it. She would come to take one to two cups at times to feed herself and her children.

She was a single mother with two kids but we weren’t surprised; it was something peculiar to the Yoruba women in my community. We all called her, “mummy Eniola” as her youngest son’s name was Eniola. She had one stubborn devil and one cute son. She was also a very good tailor.

“Mummy Eniola, thank you for yesterday”, my sister said as it was a custom for Yorubas to thank themselves for a good deed even if it was a month after.

“You’re welcome. I want to even cook rice again today, I don’t know whether you want me to cook yours along with it”, Mummy Eniola said.

“Yes, we would love that”, I said as I rushed from our room.

“Okay, no problem. I have ingredients but I don’t think I have enough rice”, mummy Eniola said.

“Well, that won’t be a problem, we have rice. Let me go get some inside”, I rushed inside, used a big bowl to fetch some rice and quickly delivered the rice to mummy Eniola who was outside our room.

Prior to this time, my dad had noticed her mischievous nature of getting things done by “borrowing”. My dad instructed us not to give her rice and soap as she was fond of getting these things from us. That means, I disobeyed instructions to get a taste of her delicacy again.

“Okay, I’ll start cooking now. I’ll call you when I’m done”, she said as she went to her room to begin cooking. My siblings and I went inside to go scatter the house as our custom was. I switched on the sound system and played some reggae. My siblings and I sang along as we were overjoyed by the feeling of eating her delicious rice soon.

In a matter of an hour, she was done. She used a huge ceramic plate to dish out our food, I took the food and expressed my gratitude. Before I could drop the food, I saw my siblings with huge spoons. Guess I was the “last man standing”. It was jollof rice but how did she prepare it within an hour? I had no idea, the only thing on my mind was how to devour it.

My siblings sat on the ground and surrounded the food like ants around sugar. I tuned the fan to the highest as I noticed the food was hot and I joined my siblings. We were ready to conquer.

As the eldest, I had the opportunity to take the first spoon. I dipped a spoon of rice in my mouth and my God! I had never tasted something so hot. Now, I was worried. What made the food so hot? Was it the fact that it just got cooked or excess pepper? I quickly took half a glass of water. I couldn’t explain the situation but my siblings didn’t hesitate to destroy the “Great Wall of Jericho”.

Now, we switched from eating to Maths; it was a spoon of rice to a glass of water. My sister was constantly filling the jug. I could tell I was eating raw pepper but we couldn’t just dispose the food; she spent so much time cooking it and besides, she was just opposite our room.

We finished the food and as boys, we quickly pulled off our clothes. I could feel the inside of my stomach burning hot, no amount of water could help my state of dilemma. The fan was on but I was sweating. Can’t believe I was fanning myself in the midst of ventilation. We just finished eating a typical Yoruba meal.

I dozed off and I was woken up some hours later with movements in my stomach. I quickly rushed to the toilet but then, the real war just begun. As I tried to excrete, I could feel the temperature of my buttocks leap to a hundred degree Celsius. Now, my feces were in war with my buttocks. Can’t believe I was crying in the toilet.

I started asking myself crucial questions; “why didn’t I stop after taking my first spoon?”, “what made me think that every meal was going to be the same?”, “how many hours will I spend here?”.

About thirty minutes later, I came out of the toilet. My siblings immediately understood that I had just come from the battlefield. They prepared their minds for theirs.

I found out later that her last meal wasn’t peppery because she didn’t have enough pepper. My God, that was the last time I tasted her food. I wasn’t willing to risk the state of my buttocks over any meal.