So, it was a sunday - the usual sunny sunday afternoon with the aura of peace and calm. The tranquil was a solemn as though keeping the day sacred as commanded. I was lounging on my couch, my eyes heavenward with my gaze fixed on the ceiling fan, thinking about how dusty it was - how dusty it had become since it hadn't rolled in a while, all thanks to irregular power supply. I couldn't help but curse NEPA under my breath. Still occupied with this idleness was I when Princess walked in and announced that lunch was ready, asking if I was ready to eat. Of course, I didn't say no. As she turned to leave, I felt that familiar churn deep in my stomach that I realized how hungry I had been.
Seconds later, she came through with a tray - a mountainous heap of rice with stew dripping from the top like the molten lava from a volcanic eruption crowned by a large stub of what looked like meat - beef to be exact, the love of my life. Immediately, I sat up as she advanced towards me, pointing to the floor and watching as she dutifully set the meal on the cold terrazoo right in front of me. I lowered myself to the floor in my favourite eating position, spreading my legs so widely with the legs in between.
I remember saying a brief prayer and drowning half the cup of water before taking my first dig in the heap. The spoon was in the midair, halfway to its destination when I had this funny blast - a conscious realization. My wild mind suddenly dwelled on why rice and stew was the default Sunday meal in almost every Nigerian home. Two Sundays ago, I had lunch of rice and stew at my cousin's place; last week, I dropped by Godfather's house to meet his wife cooking rice and stew; this week, the story still hasn't changed. Like, what is it with you Nigerian families and rice on Sundays? Perhaps its in the constitution, I could hear that little voice in my head say. My stomach gave another loud groan that I discarded this thought as soon as it came back to wherever it came from. Reflexively, I raised the spoon to its destination and buried it in my watering mouth, chewing with such calculated precision and gusto. The grinding of my teeth on the red stained grains and the spiciness my taste buds registered reminded me of just how much I had missed home everyday I was away.
I closed my eyes, savoring my first dig of delicious homemade food. My seconds of savour were cut short when I heard a deafening scream, deafening enough to snap me out of my euphoria. My head turned and I could feel my ears twitch, listening hard. Then it came again.
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!" was the throaty cry. It was close, just right outside. The voice was hoarse, with a conspicous Yoruba accent. That was unmistakably my neighbor's voice. Without second thoughts, I dashed out to the balcony to see what the problem was. Mind you, on a normal day, I was not one to give a hoot. Truth be told, I'd not even budge - perhaps because my ears would be filled with buds of my earpiece. Before you start thinking I'm a good neighbour, remember I wasn't plugged with earphones. But here I was, zooming like Flash to somebody's rescue.
One look down from my balcony and I was stunned I wasn't wrong. There was my neighbour, sitting on the dusty floor with his hands crossed over his head. Both of his legs were kicking the dust with such vigour. His blue native attire was mired, his trousers especially coated with dirt at the knees. I was lost and for a second, I thought he just got a call from the village that his mum passed on or perhaps, that his containers on the high sea sank after a storm.What?! Don't blame me for being so "negative". Really though, I couldn't decipher what could make my neighbour, a mature man in his early 40s with a wife and 3 kids, wail and roll in the dirt like a remorseful king in Bible times upon who woes and death had been pronounced by the Almighty. So I asked.
With teary eyes, he brought forward his hands - his phone in the right hand and a long piece of paper in the other. He stretched out his hands like I was supposed to understand. I asked again what the problem was - for the hundredth time. He managed to open his mouth to speak but no words came out. He held his head again with both hands and resumed his wailing, emanating gibberish and incoherent sounds. It definitely had to be his mum, I thought until I thought I heard "8.3 million" amidst his sniffs. At that point, I was intruiged. 8.3 million! perhaps he was duped or something. I had to ask again.
He managed some composure. I leaned in anticipation and interest. His next statement left me in a state of dilemma. I was even lost. I didn't know whether to fly down the stairs and console him, or burst out in uncontrollable laughter or even throw my phone at him which was definitely not an option. He finally spoke and his first coherent words were, "Eze! Na Arsenal oooo!!!" he sniffed. "Arsenal don cut my ticket!!"
"My 8.3 million oooo!!"
