I don’t know what came over me that Saturday. Normally, I would just walk to the restaurant down the road and buy jollof rice that tastes like heaven and smoke at the same time. But that morning, I told myself, today I will cook it myself. A proper pot of jollof.
“Chris, are you sure?” my neighbor, Michael asked when I told him. He was leaning on the balcony railing, sipping his Pepsi.
“Yes. Is it not just rice and tomato?”
Michael burst out laughing so hard that he almost spilled his drink. “Okay o, chef Chris. Just don’t burn down the house.”
I waved him off.
"I've seen enough tutorials on YouTube. This is nothing," I thought. "This thing is simple."
I went to the market, holding a small, folded polybag. The tomato seller looked me up and down.
“How much tomatoes?”
I panicked. How much do people normally buy? “Emm… give me two thousand naira tomato.”
She raised her eyebrow. “You wan cook party?”
“No, no. Just small rice.”
She laughed and gave me a mountain of tomatoes anyway. Then I remembered I needed pepper, onions, and the small sachet of thyme that always makes the whole kitchen smell like somebody’s mother’s house.
By the time I got home, Michael was still outside. “So you actually bought tomatoes?”
“Yes now. You think I’m joking? Come and see.”
He peeked into my bag and whistled. “This one is enough for twenty people.”
I ignored him and carried everything inside.
First mistake. I didn’t know I had to boil the tomatoes first. I simply blended everything together and poured them into hot oil. Five minutes later, the whole house smelled raw, like a farmyard.
“Is this how it’s supposed to smell?” I asked myself.
Michael knocked on the door and shouted, “Chris, are you killing goats in there?”
“Leave me alone!” I shouted back, waving smoke away with the cover of the pot.
Second mistake. I forgot about the rice. I just washed it a bit and poured it into the sauce. No parboiling, no water measurement. Just straight instincts, which I was lacking.
I stood there stirring like I’d seen my aunt do, humming to myself to stay calm. I tasted it at some point. Horrible. It tasted like watery tomato soup with floating grains of rice.
“Chris!” Michael called again.
“How far?”
“Fine!” I lied, coughing.
I decided to increase the heat. “If it cooks faster, it will taste better,” I told myself.
That was mistake number three.
The bottom of the pot was burning, and the top was still raw. I lifted the lid and a puff of smoke shot into my face. My eyes watered.
“Luna, don’t look at me like that,” I said, waving my spoon at the cat.
Just then, Michael barged in. He sniffed the air and covered his nose. “Chris, what is this abomination?”
“It’s jollof rice.” I said defensively, stirring faster.
“This one? Jollof?” He peered into the pot. “It looks like sacrifice.”
I wanted to throw the spoon at him, but instead I scooped some into a plate.
“Taste first before you insult me.”
Michael reluctantly put one spoon in his mouth, while looking at me suspiciously. Barely two seconds after, he ran to the fridge, taking out a bottle of water and gulping it down so fast.
“Why is the rice crunchy, and the pepper burning my soul?”
I slumped against the counter. “I followed the steps in my head. Oil, tomato, pepper, rice, done.”
He laughed so hard he nearly fell. “You didn’t even fry the stew properly, did you? And you added water without measuring. My friend, this thing is not jollof rice, it’s punishment.”
I sat on the floor, defeated. Luna came and rubbed her head against my leg, as if to say, don’t cry, at least you tried.
That evening, I admitted defeat and followed Michael to the restaurant. The woman there served us steaming plates of proper jollof.
I sighed deeply after taking my first bite. “Now, this is how Jollof rice is supposed to taste.”
Michael grinned. “Next time, just buy. Cooking is not for everybody.”
I nodded, chewing slowly.
"My first attempt didn't come out well because tutorial must have missed something. I'll try again with another tutorial video."
"Experimental chef." Michael said, smiling.
Back at home, the pot remained on the stove, with the bottom as black as charcoal.
“Tomorrow,” I told myself. “I’ll wash it tomorrow.”
But deep down, I knew the pot might never recover.
