Now that I am an adult, I often wonder why children do the naughty things they do, especially when I remember all the ones I did, in my days as a little girl. These are childhood memories that make me laugh out loud whenever I reminisce over them.
Nobody could slice ugu and uziza leaves the way Mom did—as thin as green ribbons, and the way they floated in that fragrant pepper-coloured broth were the treasures I deeply desired. The soup boiled, filling the house with a spicy aroma, and those plump cubes of goat meat simmering furiously in the pot— were simply irresistible.
"Mom, why don't I get any of these big pieces of meat, why must it be the small ones? I asked her one day as she prepared Egusi soup, different assorted pieces of meat winking invitingly.
"Children don't eat meat! Was her sharp reply.
"But we need more protein than you do, my basic science teacher told us so." I proudly recounted what I was taught in school.
She remained silent.
I was about eight years old at that time, and was so fed up with seeing the best meat pieces go to guests or adults in the house, while little pieces were left for us children.
So I cooked up a plan to take a prized chunk of meat from the pot before it disappears.
I could remember sneaking out of my bed that night, when everyone had gone to sleep and crept into the kitchen. Earlier that evening, My mom had cooked up a storm, and the aroma of her signature pepper pot soup was irresistible. It was being prepared for some guests arriving the next morning.
I had been very zealous in helping Mom wash the goat meat while I eyed the best pieces for later that night. As she prepared the goat meat pepper soup, I had caught a whiff of savory goodness wafting from the kitchen and my stomach growled with anticipation.
"Don't worry, be patient, wait for later tonight." I told myself to calm my growling stomach.
My technique was legendary (in my little mind)—I wait for everyone to sleep, then I quietly unlocked the kitchen door. The broth was still warm as I lifted the lid just enough to avoid clanking. I took one big piece and with lightning speed glided away like a ghost, into my room.
To me, it wasn't 'stealing', I was simply taking what was due to me, silently justifying my actions.
In a short time, I had already become a seasoned marauder of the family soup‑pot. For weeks the operation ran smooth, until the afternoon Mama “smelt a rat.”
Rain drummed the zinc roof while my cousins, who had come visiting, dozed belly‑up in the parlour. I tip‑toed into the kitchen, the aroma of uziza and crayfish guiding me like a compass. With practiced precision I opened the pot, no clang, no splash. As steam kissed my face, three shiny pieces of goat meat floated on top. I speared one with a fork, slipped it into my mouth—and closed my eyes, this was perfect.
"What's going on here?" My Mom's voice was unmistakable, furious.
My heart sank as I spun around, my cheeks bulging like a squirrel's.
I had been caught!
She was standing at the doorway, one eyebrow arched like a bow ready to loose an arrow.
"I ask again, what are you doing in my soup-pot?"
“Me? I was just—er—checking the salt.”
My mom took a step closer, her eyes furious with anger.
"Stealing from the pot, huh?" Your Dad must hear this."
My heart sprinted.
Then she adjusted her wrapper, with one hand firmly gripping my wrist, she gave me a very painful ear-rubbing exercise. Dad didn't say a word but his silence was a weird handwriting on the wall. This meant that you never know when he will explode or discipline you for that very action. To me that was very dangerous and far worse than getting an immediate punishment.
That fear kept me away from ever 'taking' meat from the soup-pot again.
Images are AI generated.
Thank you for reading.
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