I stood in front of a small cream-coloured bungalow, watching the rickety bus drive down the dusty path. My black leather bag sat on the sparse grass beside me, stuffed with my clothes and other effects. When I could no longer see the dusty detail of the bus, nor hear the erratic sound of its congested engine, I turned to the old woman at the door of the house. She was smiling so brightly that she acquired a dozen more wrinkles on her face. Ìyáàgba was a lovely woman. I had always known that. But, as I had rehearsed on the long trip from Lagos to Ilesha, I met my grandmother with a frown.
“Aramide, my dear,” she said in accented Ìjẹ̀shà Yoruba, as she danced towards me with open arms. When she wrapped them around me, I didn’t do the same. She swayed our joined bodies to the right and to the left, singing my oríkì as she did.
When she finally let go, she scanned my body. “You have grown so much o, Aramide,” she said. Although I was only thirteen years old, I was almost as tall as she was. “Welcome. I hope the journey was not too stressful?”
I only mumbled. Quickly, she bent down to carry my heavy bag. I was confident her back would snap, but she lifted the bag easily. Rather than greet her, or help her with my own bag, I stood there, frowning, as the mother of my mother climbed the two concrete steps into her house. I hated everything in that moment. I hated how I felt as I stood there. I hated my parents for thinking it would be funny to dump me in a village in the middle of nowhere. They couldn’t even bother to bring me here themselves. Instead, they handed me over to some fat man with a tooth gap at the garage.
A few moments later, Ìyáàgba stepped out of the house, loosening a knot in her wrapper. She pulled out her small phone from it, and with unsteady hands, she dialled my mother’s number.
“Alo? Simisola, your child has arrived,” she said, before turning away from me, nodding and humming, deep in their conversation. I remained at my spot, defiant, proud of myself for my show of resistance. When my grandmother finished speaking with my mother, she moved closer to me. She seemed to be catching on with what I was trying to do. At least I think so, considering the way her small eyes searched my frowning face and indignant stance. Maybe my mother told her something. Maybe about the fit I threw all the way to the garage.
“Aramide, won’t you enter?”
I shrugged my shoulder and looked away. The respectful Yoruba part of me was livid, unable to bear it as I treated my grandmother with disregard. I could have pretended that I did not understand her words, but she knew I understood Yoruba.
Ìyáàgba grunted, her lips curling downwards. “I see,” she said as she turned back to her house, speaking as she did. “When you are ready, you will enter.”
Her words only infuriated me. She didn’t even beg me! I was determined to prove her wrong. I would stand in that spot forever if that was what it would take for my parents to come apologise and pick me up.
My grandmother, whose coat I quickly learnt I was cut out from, didn’t come outside to pacify me either. I stood out there, watching the birds fly, turning at the bleat of some random goat. An hour in, when my legs began to hurt me, I moved towards a nearby tree and I leaned against it. I folded my hands, more than happy to prove a point.
Then the frying began. First I heard sizzling, and then I saw smoke. Then the smell of fried sobondé fish hit me smack in the face and my mouth began to water. My eyes narrowed, and my neck stretched toward the smell. It was coming from inside my grandmother’s house.
The first growl my stomach made caught me by surprise. I was almost embarrassed, even though no one could have heard it. The last time I ate was in the morning before my parents dropped me off, and I had only eaten noodles and eggs. Now, about seven hours later, my hunger reared its head. My legs began to hurt, and I felt weak. My body began to betray me.
Who even fries fish in the afternoon, sef? I thought to myself angrily. I tried holding my breath for a bit, but when I could no longer hold it, and I exhaled, I was forced to take in more of the aroma. Strangely, my eyes brightened, as if they saw clearer for the first time.
Then, I began to rethink my position. I did not know who told her—I suspected my mother—but sobondé fish was a favourite of mine. It had enough power over me that, though I had to swallow my pride with the pool of saliva gathering in my mouth, I moved a few steps closer. I was just going to look, nothing more.
Just as I peered through the backyard door, I watched as my grandmother tore into a piece of hot fried fish. I could see the steam escape out of her mouth as she did. I opened my mouth, stunned, as if I had just witnessed the most obscene thing I could ever imagine. Ìyáàgba turned just then, her eyes landing on me and my opened mouth. She eyed me for a moment longer with a smug look on her face. Then she turned dramatically on her stool, away from me.
I gasped. I folded my hands defiantly, but she couldn’t see me. My stomach grumbled again, clearly disgusted by my unreasonable resolve at such a crucial time. As I tried to focus, to tear myself from the savoury temptation, my grandmother moved a pot to her side. It was close enough that I could see just part of what was in it.
My jaw dropped again. The large pot was filled with yam porridge—àsáró elépo rẹ́rẹ́, as my father liked to call it. It was hot. It looked soft and chunky, and the right colour. It was just how I liked it. I almost burst into tears at that point. I felt cheated. I deserved to be angry, but somehow, my grandmother was using my weaknesses against me. It wasn’t fair!
Ìyáàgba turned to her side, a large spoon in one hand, and a deep china in the other. Then she began to scoop porridge into the bowl. It was a hefty portion. Enough for me, I thought, before I shook my head to banish the thought. My grandmother then added tail and middle cuts of the fried sobondé to the porridge. She made some adjustments to her presentation, cleaning the edges of the china with a kitchen cloth. Like a predator does her prey, I tracked the bowl, salivating, as Ìyáàgba moved the bowl to a platform. Out of nowhere, my grandmother began to sing a Yoruba song about how delicious her food was, compared to other women. We’ll see about that, I thought, before I shook my head again. She began to clean up her cooking area.
When Ìyáàgba looked towards me, I looked away, my hands still folded over my chest. My grandmother scoffed. “Shior,” she hissed. “When you are ready, you will come inside and eat your food.” She adjusted her wrapper and walked towards an inner door. “I want to go and lie down.”
Then she was out of sight, and she left me alone with a steaming bowl of food. From time to time, I kept eyeing it from a distance. By then, in my mind, I was already licking the empty china, rubbing my protruding belly, probably downing a cup of cold yoghurt with it. I glanced up above my grandmother’s aluminium roof. I traced an electric line from a pole nearby to her house. Ìyáàgba had electricity, and that meant that she probably had a refrigerator.
I sighed when the thoughts became unbearable. Who was I deceiving? Who did I think I was against the swaying force of such a perfect meal? Reluctantly, I took the first step towards the house. Then I took the next, and then a couple more. It got easier with each step, and soon I was at the doorframe. All the while, my eyes remained trained on the food. With increasing proximity, the aroma became more intense.
In a second I was inside the building, and before I could stop myself, I was standing behind the door, hunched over a bowl of asaro. I began to devour it, only resting in between spoons to allow the scalding steam to escape from my mouth. Somewhere at the back of my head, I felt disappointed in myself, in my lack of self-dignity. So I shut the voice of pride in my head up with more spoons of asaro. Somehow the asaro grew sweeter and sweeter with each spoon I took, and with each spoon, I realised how hungry I was.
I saved the big fish cuts for last. After clearing every smudge of asaro with my tongue, I began to enjoy my treat. The fish skin was crispy and nicely salted. The flesh was soft and sweet. At that point, I rested my back against the wall and sighed, contented. Fish still in my mouth, I began to think. Maybe staying in the village would not be that bad after all. I mean, I thought to myself,
it’s just a month of my summer holiday. As I gently tapped the empty china with my stainless steel spoon, I shrugged. And if Ìyáàgba promises to cook more sumptuous meals like this, I might even beg my parents to extend my stay a little.
I sat down there for a while, silently listening to my surroundings. I could hear the goat still bleating. The wind was raking the big leaves of the trees in my grandmother’s backyard. From inside, I could hear my grandmother’s soft snore. I dropped the empty bowl in a basin of dirty dishes in the corner and turned back towards the inner door.
Finally, all previous resistance forgotten, I stepped into my grandmother’s living room, hoping to find some cold yoghurt to step my meal down.
