On one particular sunny afternoon, my wife went out. Just one harmless outing. I thought I’d enjoy the peace, maybe nap a bit, watch some football, or just stare into space like a proper husband. But the universe said, “Not today, sir.”
No sooner had she stepped out than my little princess—my sweet, cute daughter with cheeks like puff-puff—suddenly transformed into a professional siren. “Daddy, I’m hungryyyyyy!”
At first, I thought it was just casual hunger, the type where a snack would do. So I offered her biscuits. She looked at me like I had just insulted her entire lineage. “I want rice and stew!” she declared, hands on her hips like her mommy. That's when I knew I was finished.
Rice and stew ke? Me? The last time I boiled water, I nearly burned the house.
I tried calling my wife, but her line said, “The person you are calling is currently ignoring your stress.” So I was left with two options: either watch my daughter cry and possibly turn the whole neighborhood against me… or fake cook.
Yes. Fake cook. I had to improvise like a Nollywood actor without a script.
First, I went into the kitchen like a man on a mission, banging pots and opening drawers like a seasoned chef. My daughter was watching me closely, probably wondering, “Is daddy about to poison us all?”
I brought out the rice, looked at it like it was a maths equation. I poured some into a pot and added water — way too much water. It was practically a swimming pool. I turned on the gas and said, “Let’s go!”
Then I opened the fridge and brought out stew from two weeks ago. I smelled it. It smelled like confusion and bacteria, so I quickly threw it back in and shut the fridge like I was sealing a crime scene.
Next up: onions and tomatoes. I sliced the onions. The onions sliced my eyes. I was crying like I was watching a Yoruba movie. “Why am I suffering like this?” I asked myself.
My daughter peeked into the kitchen, sniffed the air, and said, “It doesn’t smell like food, daddy.” I smiled and said, “That’s because it’s premium cooking, baby. Michelin star stuff. The flavor is invisible.”
I threw a few Maggi cubes into a frying pan, added oil, and stirred absolutely nothing for five minutes. I even started humming like a real chef: “Mm-mmm, chef daddy, let’s go!”
When the rice started bubbling like a volcanic experiment, I panicked. I didn’t know if that was normal or if I had just invented something new. I quickly turned off the gas and said, “Food is almost ready!” — a classic Nigerian parent lie.
Meanwhile, I gave my daughter water and told her that it was “appetizer juice.” She said, “This tastes like normal water.” I said, “Exactly! That’s the flavor!”
Just when I was about to serve my masterpiece of confusion, my wife walked in.
She looked at the kitchen, then at the rice that was floating, then at the burnt frying pan that had nothing in it, and finally at me — standing there like a guilty houseboy.
“What is going on here?” she asked.
Before I could answer, my daughter ran to her and shouted, “Mommy! Daddy was cooking stew but there was no stew, only smoke and water!”
My wife just sighed and pushed me gently out of the way. Within 10 minutes, the house was smelling like a proper food joint. My daughter was eating. I was still recovering.
I looked at my wife and said, “Honestly, cooking is not for the weak.”
She laughed. “You didn’t cook. You were acting.”
Exactly. I faked it. And let me tell you—fake cooking is harder than real cooking.
Never again.
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