You know that hunger that crawls up your stomach and bites its painful fangs in your belly. No matter how you try to trick your mind, you're not hungry to get more sleep; it just sits there like a stubborn child.
That was the kind that woke me up that morning. I jumped out of bed and walked to the kitchen. I needed to get some edibles down my system.
But as I pulled my fridge open, I hoped I would find something to munch on. All I found was half a sachet of milk, a bottle of wine, and one lonely egg. I groaned
"I'm not going to die of hunger on my first day of leave,” I muttered.
Thankfully, I had done some grocery shopping yesterday night on my way back from work. Hoping that I'll spend half of my day sleeping, as it was my first day on a one-week leave. And the other half cooking since it's been long I actually did something I loved. Something that brought me joy, cooking.
Not the lazy kind. Not the noodles or cornflakes kind. But the kind that leaves splashes of oil on the wall and leaves you wiping sweat from your forehead with a smile. The kind that reminds you that you are still alive.
I turned to see the unpacked bag of groceries sitting pretty on the kitchen counter. I walked over to it and started unpacking.
I looked out the window to Mama Chinedu's kitchen, and everywhere was quiet. Too quiet. I smiled, maybe just the peace I needed. No noise from kids in the compound, no pings from work chats. No urgent emails to respond to. Just seven full days to do absolutely nothing. A different kind of joy filled my heart. One that I haven't experienced in a long while.
I quickly tied a scarf around my head, pulled out my Bluetooth speaker from the shelf, which was hidden, and blasted Bruno Mars' Lazy song at full volume. Then I walked to the fridge and brought out a bottle of wine I had left and poured myself a drink. I pulled on my apron and swayed to the beat. While sipping, chopping, frying, and singing along in a loud voice.
The plan was simple, just rice and stew. But before I knew it, I added fried plantains, boiled eggs, and a dash of veggies to the mix. The more the onions sizzled, the more the aroma rose. The more the aroma rose, the more my smile increased. Like my own private therapy session, it made me feel alive.
I didn't see Mama Chinedu standing by the window as I threw a slice of raw onion in the air and caught it with my mouth.
“Zerah!" She yelled.
I flinched, turned down the volume of the speaker, and scanned my house, scared to see who was calling me. The voice sounded like someone was inside my house. But I was sure my door was locked.
"Look through your window."
I turned to see Mama Chinedu standing there with her hands on her waist.
“You're cooking? That's a new one. What's happening today? Besides, you should be at work.”
I burst out laughing.
“Well, this girl is on a week's leave!” I struck a pose
"Open the door." She replied, and I could see the questions and surprise on her face. I didn't tell her of my leave.
I walked over to the door and opened it. Mama Chinedu stood there with her eyebrows raised, her wrapper knotted tightly around her waist, and her headgear almost like it was about to fall off. I could tell she had stepped out that morning.
Without waiting for her to lock the door, I walked back to the kitchen. While she followed.
“You know, I thought someone was hosting a party here,” she said, eyes scanning the kitchen as she got in. “It’s been what, ages I perceived anything like this coming from your kitchen, lady. I was beginning to wonder if your gas was for decoration.”
I said nothing but smiled. She was right, I haven't been doing much cooking lately.
“And you didn’t tell me of your leave." She continued.
“Well, you know now.” I winked at her.
She stepped fully into the kitchen, dancing to the music on my speaker. “I'm done with my clients' deliveries for the day. So, I'm free. What can I help you with?” She walked over to the counter and poured herself a drink. Then she tied her braids into a ponytail, washed her hands, and put on an apron I left hanging by the kitchen door
I shook my head and laughed. “No, no, no. Mama, please rest. Allow me to spoil you today."
She laughed “Rest? The living have no rest. Besides, look at your eyes, tired. You should be the one resting."
Before I knew it, she was dicing the onions I left on the table. I smiled and got back to stirring my pot.
We danced, sang, laughed, performed the songs as they played on repeat, and clinked glasses like it was our birthday. I turned the music louder. Oil splashes on the wall. We burned a few plantains because we were too busy dancing to Roar by Katy Perry. While I turned the spatula into a guitar, Mama Chinedu turned the spoon into her microphone. Trust me, I don't remember the last time my kitchen felt that alive. I don’t remember the last time I felt that alive.
“You know,” Mama said, arranging bowls of food on the counter, “I miss doing this with my boys and daughter.. I’d shout at them to leave the kitchen, but inside, I liked it. It meant life was happening.” She paused. "Now it's just me and Chinedu. That one doesn't care."
I paused and looked at her. “Don't worry, I care. Call me anytime you wish." I replied, hugging her from behind. We smelled of spices and onion.
She laughed. “You?”
I smiled. “I know. I should have put ‘if work permits’.”
We sat down to eat, not minding how full the sink was with dirty plates. Not minding how dirty the kitchen was. The wall behind the cooker had specks of stew. We just didn't care. We sat on the floor with our backs against the wall, breathing like we’d just climbed a hill. Staring at each other. An empty bowl of rice and a bottle of wine sat close to us on the floor.
I looked around the kitchen and laughed.
“I still have a lot of work to do," I said.
“Hmm? You mean we?” Mama Chinedu replied tiredly. "We still have a lot of cleaning to do."
I laughed.
I might be stuffed with food but I was sure I was stuffed with joy too. And I knew why, it wasn't just from the food or cooking. Most of it came with spending time with Mama Chinedu. She had brought it with her, like she always does. A known joy giver.