The red dust welcomed me home like an old friend, swirling around my feet as I stepped out of the bus with my luggage. It had been a year since the last time I came to the village for Christmas. Yet, everything felt the same, the narrow footpaths, the cold harmattan wind, and the bleating of goats as they chewed the blades.
My friend and classmate who had lived in the city all her life, was enthralled by my stories of my village and my lovely Grandma. With her parents' consent, Kamsi travelled with me down to the village, so she could experience the rural lifestyle.
"Why does the air smell like smoke?” She asked, wrinkling her nose.
I smiled. “That’s the scent of firewood."
We were going to spend the holiday in Grandma's compound, a weather-worn hut standing with quiet dignity.
The villagers called her "Ojiukuejenaba" (the woman who travelled long distances with her basket of clothes, hawking them). A widow, a businesswoman, a farmer, a legend.
As we settled in, I walked around the compound, my fingers brushing against the old mortar we pounded yam in, now cracked. I could perceive the groundnuts she was roasting for us, I could hear her humming one of her age-old tunes.
That night, under a sky glittering with stars, Kamsi and I and other children gathered by the fireplace. A large pot of concoction rice — smoky, peppery, laced with dry bonga fish and the smell of ogiri — sat in the middle.
“Eat slowly,” Grandma warned. “And don’t waste it.”
Kamsi poked at her food. “But Grandma, the fish has bones, and this stew smells funny.”
I gave her a look. “Funny how? That ‘funny’ fed nine children and a compound of many grandchildren. And we were all strong.”
"Better eat your food because we never waste anything. Not food, not time.” Grandma reiterated.
She reluctantly ate, the flames dancing on her face.
But I thought that Kamsi’s plate, emptied too quickly, not knowing that when no one was looking, she had tiptoed to the backyard with her plate half-full and had dumped the rice behind the compost pit.
The next morning while I was sweeping the compound, I saw it. I quickly covered it up with sand so Grandma would not see it.
Later that morning, I called her aside. “Kamsi,” I said gently, “did you throw your food away yesterday?”
Kamsi hesitated, then nodded, looking so guilty . “I didn’t like the smell.”
I pulled her close. “Do you know that once, when I was much younger, Grandma caught me wasting food too?”
Kamsi looked up. “She did?”
“Yes. She had made moi-moi with bitter leaves, and I buried it behind the cassava patch. Grandma woke me up in the middle of the night to give me a long lecture;
"The one who throws food throws away blessings, Nwa m, food is not just food. It is the sweat of the earth, the kindness of God, and the love of those who prepare it. Waste it, and you mock all three."
Kamsi sniffled.
"Please, don't let Grandma know that I threw her food away."
I smiled. “Don't worry, you just need to learn like I did.”
“You see?” I continued softly. “Grandma’s food was never wasted. If she had only one piece of yam, she would share it and still keep the peels for planting. Even meat bones went to Butu, our dog. When she said ‘waste not, want not’, it wasn’t just a proverb, it was survival. She planted when the rains came, harvested when the sun burned, and sold her cloth across seven hills. Her pots were never full, yet no child in her care ever slept hungry.”
She listened wide-eyed.
Then the breeze blew— soft, almost like a whisper, like in agreement. The udara tree in the distance stood still, but a single flower dropped to the earth.
Weeks later, we were ready to return to school, just as the udara tree began to bloom again — fresh leaves, budding fruits.
As we boarded the bus, Kamsi held tightly to her food basket, packed with leftover jollof, bonga fish, and Grandma’s dry okpa.
Grandma smiled. “You’re keeping them?”
Kamsi grinned. “Yes, Grandma. I won’t waste any. I promise.”
The bus pulled away, and as the village faded into the horizon, I looked out the window and whispered:
“Thank you Grandma, this lesson would last a lifetime."
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