On the cool soft soil we sat our bums, tucking our fists for a
generous mould of eba, which we then dip into mama's delicious efo soup, we'll
be gulping aloud, giving our fingers a wet sloppy lick as we munch away at
dinner under the full moon in the open garden. Each thrust into the soup always
involve punching the small meatball in the middle of the soup, which is meant
to be shared among the four of us, however the way we moved the meat around in
the plate, it can only be compared to be like a ball being dribbled about on a
football pitch, and God save anyone who will either mischievously or
accidentally let his eba get stuck on the meat, and swallow it, Dele who did
that ten moons ago still have his gapped tooth mouth as an unfortunate memoir,
he now involuntarily has to sucked in gallons of air anytime he gives a smile,
luckily for him his dental arrangement shows more of someone replacing his milk
teeth for permanent ones, not the reality of a ferocious blow stuck into his
face by Banji, the most elderly of us; who is always the tasked with the
glorious duty of sharing meat strands among us.
We are always oblivious to the noisy conversations made by the Obey family on your left or the Adewole family on our right, just like they don't care about our noisy chattering, after-all, we grew up and accustomed to their usual yabbayabba all our lives, except the unusual interesting drama resulting into some slaps, kicks and rainfall of abuse, which in each cases got ruined by tons of neighbours who can't wait to wade into the fights, taking sides and the elderly mediating. Nevertheless, the usual dinner routine is as simple as is as important, it's the platform to give summary of the day event, next day tasks and responsibility get allocated, village gossips and stories got shared among several other procedural routines. On a good day depending on how good our behaviours has been that day and the present mood that night, we get our mama to tell us a good Ijapa (tortoise) story, but not until the plates are cleared, our hands washed. The cleaning up exercise usually start as some form of tussle between us on who to clean papa plate, as his plate is usually littered with either some chunk of meat, or remnant of his meal.
I never cease to wonder the reason for the stark differences between papa's plates and our plates, which is usually tongue-cleaned after each meal, it's like either the plate was not used at all, or it's already washed up, such is our tenacity to show our gratitude for the delicious meal, it's not until much later when I was much older that I realised it's properly down to the meal for two being shared by four mouths. However back then, my assumption was that either papa reckon the food is not delicious enough, or he's not that hungry in the first place. Either way, it's not a blessing in disguise, it's actually a blessing, and just like a magical act, papa's plate prestidigitate into one of ours, with our reflection staring back at us like someone looking into a mirror.
It is only after this, that we then use soap made from fermented plantain truck, and a beaten up case which serve as sponge to perfect the job. After this, it's a mad rush for the usual open arena designated for storytelling.
We are always oblivious to the noisy conversations made by the Obey family on your left or the Adewole family on our right, just like they don't care about our noisy chattering, after-all, we grew up and accustomed to their usual yabbayabba all our lives, except the unusual interesting drama resulting into some slaps, kicks and rainfall of abuse, which in each cases got ruined by tons of neighbours who can't wait to wade into the fights, taking sides and the elderly mediating. Nevertheless, the usual dinner routine is as simple as is as important, it's the platform to give summary of the day event, next day tasks and responsibility get allocated, village gossips and stories got shared among several other procedural routines. On a good day depending on how good our behaviours has been that day and the present mood that night, we get our mama to tell us a good Ijapa (tortoise) story, but not until the plates are cleared, our hands washed. The cleaning up exercise usually start as some form of tussle between us on who to clean papa plate, as his plate is usually littered with either some chunk of meat, or remnant of his meal.
I never cease to wonder the reason for the stark differences between papa's plates and our plates, which is usually tongue-cleaned after each meal, it's like either the plate was not used at all, or it's already washed up, such is our tenacity to show our gratitude for the delicious meal, it's not until much later when I was much older that I realised it's properly down to the meal for two being shared by four mouths. However back then, my assumption was that either papa reckon the food is not delicious enough, or he's not that hungry in the first place. Either way, it's not a blessing in disguise, it's actually a blessing, and just like a magical act, papa's plate prestidigitate into one of ours, with our reflection staring back at us like someone looking into a mirror.
It is only after this, that we then use soap made from fermented plantain truck, and a beaten up case which serve as sponge to perfect the job. After this, it's a mad rush for the usual open arena designated for storytelling.
....to be
continued
...to be continued
By Adeolu Adesanya
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