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THE STORY NO ONE ASKED ME (PT6)
May cockroach not die in a vegetable soup you cooked with shrimps. It may sound hilarious of a prayer but erm... Okay!
If there is one thing I've learned, or let me not lie this time, let's just say one thing that amaze me a lot about Benin people is how they'll cook so cheap, yet aroma so expensive. You'd probably think they've used the whole Nigerian budget to cook the meal, whereas the sum that killed the sweet soup is not even enough to make a down payment for a roasted corn, quiet blulaba!
So, about three days ago I visited the Ugbiyoko market for the first time after months of being in the city. Don't ask me how I've been surviving, I'm a 'lazy Nigerian youth'. As not-so-small as the market is, the blaring noise from the bustling of activities in the market, traders hawking their wares and shoppers bartering for the best prices, was enough to deafen a deaf man.
I didn't go to the market with much cash, so my tour was coordinated and straight to the point. I made my way through the throng of shoppers, dodging the occasional goats or chickens that dragged the narrow path with passerbys. The list I compiled under the tutelage of my aged and very friendly landlady made my 'shopping sprew' faster. I couldn't pronounce some ingredients on the list, I had to show the market woman.
As I approached the edge of the market leaving, I saw a group of women gathered around a large wooden mortar, pounding yams into a smooth paste for Santana (also called fufu in some other parts of the country). The rhythmic thud of the pestles echoed through the market, creating a steady beat that seemed to pulse with the life of the market. I left the market with not just a bag of my groceries but also experiences about the market.
I got home, conjured it like my herbalist said I should and it turned out the way she said it would. Though it was a touch of the ocean n' what Blulaba is showing Nigerians - premium pepper - yet I got the aroma, as expected. One of my neighbours almost gave me his first daughter when the pungent aroma of my soup almost lifted the house's roof, tantalizing n' totori-ing the senses. The stock fish, shrimps, and different leaves that left the forest early that I bought didn't let my money burn.
Not only wine taste better as it ages, my soup did too. I was supposed to eat the last portion this morning, though I didn't wanted it to finish. Yes, despite the knock knees in the soup, the aroma alone is satisfying. But it was 'gone too soon' last night, before the morning.
You know the vibes there's light to do your house chores. I was about pouring the hot water I was boiling into a bowl and pouring my Manihot esculenta flakes for some stirring when the light went off. That's when I understand that patience is a virtue. Gently, I poured the hot water to avoid a splash, and added the flakes. Gas is now one thousand and six hundred naira per kg, so I quickly put the soup on the fire.
I went for my torchlight, then I realized I forgot to plug it while there was light. My iris can see clearer than the torch's brightness but half a bread is better than akara, innit? I had to keep it on to see through the darkness in the room that I could dice with a knife. I stirred the flakes into a 'mountain' which I sat at, as e dey hot, because I was famished already. I served the soup as soon as it was slightly warmed and was fisting the 'mountain' and feasting the soup.
My teeth noticed something odd, maybe crunchy, as I was chewing the swallow. I spat it out to check what it could be because my brain wasn't processing any result for the discovery in my mouth. I flashed my dull looking torch on the irritating mixture I spat out and faintly noticed what seem like the antenna or legs of shrimps. My sixth feeling wasn't cool with the interpretation my brain is giving but a hungry man is a hungry man, you get?
At the very next morsel I'll grabbed, the light was turned back on and the revelation was vivid! I saw an amputated cockroach soaked in the soup. It wasn't looking fresh like it just entered when the lights went off. Exactly! You're already thinking what I'm thinking too. My brain is now processing the odd texture my teeth crushed earlier. I couldn't cry.
Can you now see that it's no joke to pray, 'may cockroach not die in a vegetable soup you cooked with shrimps'? I'm currently on the second toothpaste this morning brushing my throat out as if washing my sins away.
© The Dhramatikpen
#the365writingmarathon
285/365
If there is one thing I've learned, or let me not lie this time, let's just say one thing that amaze me a lot about Benin people is how they'll cook so cheap, yet aroma so expensive. You'd probably think they've used the whole Nigerian budget to cook the meal, whereas the sum that killed the sweet soup is not even enough to make a down payment for a roasted corn, quiet blulaba!
So, about three days ago I visited the Ugbiyoko market for the first time after months of being in the city. Don't ask me how I've been surviving, I'm a 'lazy Nigerian youth'. As not-so-small as the market is, the blaring noise from the bustling of activities in the market, traders hawking their wares and shoppers bartering for the best prices, was enough to deafen a deaf man.
I didn't go to the market with much cash, so my tour was coordinated and straight to the point. I made my way through the throng of shoppers, dodging the occasional goats or chickens that dragged the narrow path with passerbys. The list I compiled under the tutelage of my aged and very friendly landlady made my 'shopping sprew' faster. I couldn't pronounce some ingredients on the list, I had to show the market woman.
As I approached the edge of the market leaving, I saw a group of women gathered around a large wooden mortar, pounding yams into a smooth paste for Santana (also called fufu in some other parts of the country). The rhythmic thud of the pestles echoed through the market, creating a steady beat that seemed to pulse with the life of the market. I left the market with not just a bag of my groceries but also experiences about the market.
I got home, conjured it like my herbalist said I should and it turned out the way she said it would. Though it was a touch of the ocean n' what Blulaba is showing Nigerians - premium pepper - yet I got the aroma, as expected. One of my neighbours almost gave me his first daughter when the pungent aroma of my soup almost lifted the house's roof, tantalizing n' totori-ing the senses. The stock fish, shrimps, and different leaves that left the forest early that I bought didn't let my money burn.
Not only wine taste better as it ages, my soup did too. I was supposed to eat the last portion this morning, though I didn't wanted it to finish. Yes, despite the knock knees in the soup, the aroma alone is satisfying. But it was 'gone too soon' last night, before the morning.
You know the vibes there's light to do your house chores. I was about pouring the hot water I was boiling into a bowl and pouring my Manihot esculenta flakes for some stirring when the light went off. That's when I understand that patience is a virtue. Gently, I poured the hot water to avoid a splash, and added the flakes. Gas is now one thousand and six hundred naira per kg, so I quickly put the soup on the fire.
I went for my torchlight, then I realized I forgot to plug it while there was light. My iris can see clearer than the torch's brightness but half a bread is better than akara, innit? I had to keep it on to see through the darkness in the room that I could dice with a knife. I stirred the flakes into a 'mountain' which I sat at, as e dey hot, because I was famished already. I served the soup as soon as it was slightly warmed and was fisting the 'mountain' and feasting the soup.
My teeth noticed something odd, maybe crunchy, as I was chewing the swallow. I spat it out to check what it could be because my brain wasn't processing any result for the discovery in my mouth. I flashed my dull looking torch on the irritating mixture I spat out and faintly noticed what seem like the antenna or legs of shrimps. My sixth feeling wasn't cool with the interpretation my brain is giving but a hungry man is a hungry man, you get?
At the very next morsel I'll grabbed, the light was turned back on and the revelation was vivid! I saw an amputated cockroach soaked in the soup. It wasn't looking fresh like it just entered when the lights went off. Exactly! You're already thinking what I'm thinking too. My brain is now processing the odd texture my teeth crushed earlier. I couldn't cry.
Can you now see that it's no joke to pray, 'may cockroach not die in a vegetable soup you cooked with shrimps'? I'm currently on the second toothpaste this morning brushing my throat out as if washing my sins away.
© The Dhramatikpen
#the365writingmarathon
285/365
