The first day she heard gunshots in the city, her spoon paused mid-air, and her jaw dropped. She didn't flinch or run. She only listened to be sure she wasn't hallucinating. In silence, she picked up her little son and ran into her little makeshift hut where she had camped with her son hiding from the Nigerian soldiers.
She had heard rumors of the war getting closer. The Nigerian soldiers were penetrating the camps of the Biafran soldiers, causing havoc and unexplainable war crimes.
From her little hut window, she looked out to see smoke from a distance curling into the evening sky. A mother must have tried to feed her children from her hiding and, in the process, has revealed her location to the soldiers.
It was the third family this week.
She bit her lip so hard trying to hide her pain and tears. She had lit a fire too. Her pot of steaming rice was sitting pretty on the fire. Its steam hissed through the gaps in the old iron lid. Her body shook, and her knees felt weak.
Has the soldier found her location too? Were they moving in quickly to her next?
With courage and strength from an unexplainable source. She ran fast, dousing the fire with a gourd of water, then she picked up her pot and took it inside. She didn't care that her rice was still half-cooked. She wasn't going to light that fire again. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not even if her rice was going to spoil before nightfall.
She had to save her son and herself first till she found a safer way to cook.
Carefully nestled inside her hit in fear of the unknown. Of what might happen next. She held her child close to her chest and cried. The only human left in this world with her. She had lost her husband Obinna, a few months back. He had gone out that day in search of their daily bread. But never returned after the big blackout that left cities without power. Now, she was left to raise their six-year-old son, Nnanna, alone.
During the last few months, she had learned how to survive with the little she had. Skills she would have sworn were impossible. She had come to understand that, in war, a single misstep could mean death. She needed to master the art of not being seen, heard,, or even smelled. Like a jet in stealth mode, she needed to be invisible.
“Mommy, my belly is singing,” Nnanna whispered, bringing her back to reality.
She stroked his hair. “I know, baby. I'm hungry too. Be patient, we’ll feed soon.”
She paused. But how? she thought.
That night, while Nnanna slept in her arms. She sat on the dirt floor, staring at her pot of half-cooked rice. Her hands were trembling from hunger. Her eyes burned with fatigue. Her mind wouldn’t stay still.
Then she remembered a story her mother told her of women who had cooked without fire. Just clothes, leaves, and time. Back then, it had sounded like a fairytale to her. But now, she needed to try that fairytale. Maybe - just maybe, it was an invention waiting to be tested.
With desperation and so much zeal. She got up.
She wrapped a broken basket and lined the inside with fresh plantain leaves. Then, she doubled it with her old wrappers, some old sack bags she could find, and more fresh plantain leaves. Then she placed her still-warm pot inside like a baby being nestled inside a swaddling cloth to avoid the cold from outside. She added some hot coal from the fire she had made earlier and wrapped it tightly. Making sure no heat escaped.
Then she sat back and prayed that it would cook.
One hour passed. Then two.
She untied the ropes, slowly. Unwrapped the ash-covered cloth. Lifted the lid of the pot. Hot steam kissed her face. She picked a few grains to taste. It was soft. It's not perfect, but it's cooked. Cooked enough to eat.
"It wasn't a fairytale after all" she muttered with a smile on her face.
She quickly drained the water and dished the food for her hungry son to eat. Then she sat beside him and watched as he rushed the food like a man who hadn't eaten in days.
She was happy.
Happy to have invented a way to keep their hope alive with fear lurking around.
