‘Now listen here carefully, Ijeoma…’, implores Mama, for umpteenth time as she adds some spice to the boiling pot of melon soup ‘…the curry comes before you put in salt, you hear?’
‘Yes, Mama! Curry before salt Crayfish before crayfish. Onions before crayfish…’
‘It’s not funny, Ijeoma. Not at all!’, Mama retorts angrily.
That’s my problem with Mama. Ever since Dennis’ family came over to officially ask my hand in marriage, my mother has become as corky as a regimental sergeant major, shouting out orders at me as she puts me through a crash programme in cooking 101.
It is not that I can’t cook but having spent my adolescent days in a boarding house throughout my secondary school education, and eating out for the better part of my stay in the varsity campus, Mama never lets any moment pass without reminding what a terrible a cook I am.
‘Ijeoma, you must remember that the way to a man’s heart is through the belly. No reasonable man will marry a woman who can’t cook.’, she will usually say.
‘But Mama who says I can’t cook?’
‘You call boiling yam and spaghetti cooking? Rubbish!!!’
‘Mama, not every man is like Papa. Men of nowadays look for other qualities in their women.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like being well educated, hardworking, charming…’
‘You fool yourself, my daughter. Now listen here carefully, no man, no matter his level of exposure or education jokes with his belly, especially not an African man!’
‘Then, I will marry a white man.’
‘Ijeoma…’
We break off the conversation at this point laughing at each other.
Well, Dennis and I have been seeing each other for six months now and he hasn’t proven to be Mama’s typical African man stereotype. At least he hasn’t complained about my fried rice, fried eggs and plantain, or early morning custard and toast bread with butter.
‘…I won’t wait to let you drive away my prospective son-in-law with your sophistry. Better, come learn the old time secret to keeping one’s man at home before it is too late.’
So here I am again beside Mama in her hot, stuffy kitchen as I have been for over a week now, listening half heartedly to her as she drones on beside her hot cauldron of soup.
‘Now having put in all the ingredients you….’
‘…cover the pot and let the soup simmer for five minutes before putting down from the fire.’
‘Good!’ Now watch over the soup while I go set the table, o.k.?
‘O.k. Mama.’ I say as she hands me the big spoon before leaving for the dining table.
Just thn the phone rings at the living room.
‘Ijeoma, Dennis is on the line…’
I hurry out to the parlour and soon my heartthrob and I are busy chatting away.
‘Ijeoma!’
I don’t know how long I have been on the line but Mama’s scream makes me drop the mouthpiece and run towards the kitchen.
No need to guess as the smell of burnt food hits my nose as I reach the door. The look on Mama’s face says it all; her hot cauldron of soup isn’t going to be on the menu this afternoon.
