It was a rainy Thursday and evening in Ikorodu, the kind that painted the skies grey and slowed everyone down. Traffic dragged on the expressway, the aroma of roasted corn due to the fact that we are in the season of corn was mixed with the earthy scent of rain, and the electricity had blinked off twice already. But inside the Shoyombo household, my home of course, something unexpected was happening, my family was sitting down to dinner together.
This was not normal for my family. Not anymore.
Two years ago, dinner together was as regular as sunrise. My Mom would return from her Tailor job and head straight to the kitchen. Dad on the other hand, though he was a busy civil servant, always made it a point to be home by 7:00 p.m and sometimes 10:00 p.m. Myself being the oldest child, would set the table, while my younger sister, Funmi, and the last female child, Fifoluwa would carry the water bottles, then our last-born, Idideoluwa would wipe the plastic chairs. We would sit, pray, eat, argue, laugh and then talk. Not just about food, but about school, work, life, and dreams.
But things changed.
I gained admission to study Guidance and Counseling at the Lagos State University and rarely came home. Funmi was done with secondary school and was under training to be an hairstylist, Fifoluwa now in JSS 3, started attending evening tutorials for BECE and would usually grab bread and tea after she returned tired. Idideoluwa got hooked on cartoons and ate in front of the TV. Dad’s office work began demanding late hours, and Mom started a side hustle baking cakes along side with her Tailor job. Everyone was busy. Everyone was tired. No one had time for dinner together anymore.
Until my last semester break.
I had come home for the semester break, and one evening, i came into the kitchen while my mum was baking and I said, “Mummy, I miss our dinner time.”
Mommy stopped stirring the buttercream. “Ah! Those were the days o.”
“You remember how Daddy used to tell us stories about his village?” I laughed. “And how Fifoluwa would always beg for more meat and food?”
They both burst into laughter.
That evening, i spoke with my dad, then sat with Funmi, Fifoluwa and Idideoluwa. “Can we try this again?” I pleaded. “Just one dinner together this week. All of us.”
To my surprise, everyone agreed.
So the next Sunday evening, we made it happen.
I cooked jollof rice with fried plantain, and Mom made egusi soup with pounded yam. Dad came home early for the first time in weeks. Funmi skipped her training center, Fifoluwa didn't attend evening class. Even little Idideoluwa didn’t touch the TV remote.
We set the table together plastic chairs pulled close, big flask in the middle, cups for water. Before they ate, Dad prayed aloud, giving thanks for “togetherness.”
And they talked.
I shared my challenges at school, especially how tough my Counselling course was. Dad listened attentively, occasionally nodding and offering suggestions. Mom talked about a new bakery she was considering opening near her tailoring shop. Funmi explain how her boss frustrate her at the training shop. Fifoluwa confessed how she was thinking of dropping business studies because “it’s killing me slowly.” They all laughed. Even Idideoluwa, only seven, chipped in about how a classmate stole his biscuit and how he bit him back.
For the first time in a long time, we weren’t just a group of people living in the same house we were a family again.
After that night, we all agreed to try and make it a tradition Sunday dinners, no matter what.
Sometimes, there were challenges. Sometimes Dad's was stuck at the place of work. Other times Fifoluwa had exams. And sometimes Funmi close late from shop. Once or twice Mom had cake deliveries running late. But slowly, the rhythm returned. One dinner at a time.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was intentional.
Weeks later, during one of those Sunday dinners, Dad smiled and said, “You know, when families eat together, they don’t just share food they share life.”
And he was right.
At the end, the Shoyombo, my family didn’t need a special dining room or fancy cutlery. All we needed was a shared plate, open hearts, and the willingness to press pause to sit, eat, laugh, and be together.
Because a family that eats together, truly lives together.
[Image from Me]