Mama Chinedu had promised to teach me how to cook her native soup, the one I had watched her make countless times but never managed to get right on my own.
So that particular Saturday evening, after I had gotten all the ingredients needed for the soup, just as she had written on the grocery list she gave me earlier. She invited me over to her kitchen, much like a student attending private lessons.
I got to her apartment and she was already in the kitchen prepping what was needed.
"Good evening ma'am." I was greeted as I stepped in
Mama Chinedu looked at me, then she pushed an empty pot into my hand. “Come inside,” she said.
“I thought you'd cook while I watch,” I said quickly.
She smiled. “Nah, you will cook.”
I looked around her small but familiar kitchen. It held memories of laughter and heartfelt discussions. I walked over to the gas burner as Mama Chinedu quickly pushed a stool aside and made space for me like she had been expecting me all day.
I squeezed my face like a baby being forced to do something against her will. "But Ma'am."
“Zee don't use that trick on me. You want to learn how to eat my native soup, so you are not watching me cook it.” She smiled and tapped my shoulders gently. "You're doing it yourself. First, wash your hands."
I turned the tap on and let the water run down my hands. Then she pushed a spoon into my hands. I turned the gas on and set the pot on fire. Then, I proceeded to pour the oil, glancing at Mama Chinedu just to be sure I wasn't putting too much. She didn’t rush me. She didn't judge. She just leaned against the counter, arms folded, observing without hovering.
“Not too much,” she said gently, when it was already too much.
I laughed, embarrassed. “That's why I was looking at you.”
“Don't worry, the oil will forgive you,” she said. "Now add the onions."
I let the onions hit the pot and it hissed louder than I expected. I stirred too fast, then slowed down. My shoulders felt tight. I was fidgeting. Cooking in front of someone always felt like being examined. I didn’t like being seen while trying.
“Relax, I'm not flogging you” Mama Chinedu laughed. “I can feel your fear. I'm sure the soup does too.”
I proceeded to add pepper and some spices. I noticed the colour darkened. I tasted it and felt my chest sink.
“Did I do something wrong,” I said. “It's looking...”
I moved to hand her the spoon, already stepping back.
She didn’t take it.
“The fire is a lot of fire. It's burning your ingredients." Mama Chinedu asked.
I paused.
“I think I should add water,” I said, adjusting the stove.
“Do it,” she said.
I added water carefully. Stirred slower. The smell changed. I tasted it again, and it tasted burnt but not as bad as before.
Mama Chinedu tasted the soup. "Still not good. But not hopeless." She reached for a few other ingredients and put them into the pot making sure to taste at intervals until she felt like it was okay
Something in me stayed this time. I didn’t withdraw. I kept watching her do her trick. Like a mother helping her daughter correct her mistakes.
"Let it simmer for a few minutes." She said covering the pot before pulling close to the kitchen stool and sitting down.
I nodded and pulled another seat and sat close to her. Resting my head on her shoulder. She adjusted and let her hands massage my hair.
As the soup simmered, the aroma filled the kitchen. I am Fred Hard, it didn't smell burnt anymore. I wondered what Mama Chinedu did to tackle that
We sat there in silence until Mama Chinedu started talking. About her early days. About cooking for people who never say thank you. About learning by ruining pots and still eating from them.
“You see, that's something you're still to learn. You don’t stop because something goes wrong,” she said. “You stop when you are sure you've tackled it.”
"When are we adding the vegetables?" I asked instead. Not because I wasn't interested in her advice but because I couldn't wait to taste my final result.
She smiled. "You can do that now. Just bit by bit. Don't pack it all in at once."
I got up, and just as she had advised, I added the vegetables to the simmering soup bit by bit. I let it boil for a few minutes before setting it down. Immediately, it felt like I had earned something.
I served her first without thinking. She tasted it slowly.
“This is good,” she said.
I smiled, surprised at how much that mattered. “It almost wasn’t. All thanks to your expertise.”
She looked at me. “Most things that become great weren't without mistakes. Besides, don't write off your efforts too.”
I hugged her. Not rushed. Properly.
“I'll set the table now," I said as I went to serve the food.
And as we finally sat down to eat, in that small kitchen, with a soup I had almost ruined and a woman who never gave up on me, I felt something quiet settle in my chest. I understood, at last, what heartfelt truly meant.
