FOOD! YOU MURDERER!!

I was moseying happily through the mall with my mom when I inadvertently nearly killed her thanks to the subject of food, my true love. How? Allow me to begin at the beginning.

 I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and it was almost 3pm so naturally I was tired. As you may or may not know, I am a food fiend! I just love grub, but, that doesn’t mean that I eat all the time. It’s a bit ironic that I love food so much but eat very little of it. I’m not one of those people who get up in the morning, showers, gets ready and has breakfast. I skip the eating part.

 Honestly, I don’t think I’ve eaten a breakfast “BREAKFAST” in years. I just don’t and if I’m busy during the day, I may not bother to get up and eat something till maybe 2 or 3pm or later. Of Corse I drink water and keep my fluids up. The thing is: When I am not thinking about food, I am literally NOT thinking about  it in any way, shape or form, I hardly feel hungry as such.

So, how does all this have to do with me trying to murder my number one hero?

 Well, being the Africans that we are, taking care of people around us is important, we are very hospitable and being Nigerian, hospitality is paramount, especially offering greeting people with food the minute they arrive at your doorstep and so on.

Mom commented on how I was looking so tired and I said I hadn’t eaten anything yet and wasn’t even hungry “HUNGRY”. Naturally, she chided me for not getting something to eat to which I said, I am not really in a food eating mood. I confessed that I feel bad sometimes when a friend visits and it takes me more than the record time of oh, 2 seconds to shove some food in their face!

I’m used to friends who come in make themselves at home; the fridge is your oyster so to speak, take whatever.

Then she hinted that I had better not do that with my husband, and there it was! The bait, I fell for it hook, line and sinker. My flippant response was:

 “well, my husband must know that I am his wife, not a cook”

 And that, my friends, is how I nearly killed my hero. The shock on her face was followed by eerie silence. I thought she was going to keel over or drop right there!  I cursed the day I didn’t go for the free CPR lessons!

I don't understand how food, my great love, got me in this mess. You see, in our culture, as a wife and woman, no matter what, you have to serve your husband diligently and with respect, which I believe in. I don’t think most African men are necessarily helpers in the domestic sense but they do work hard so we should do our best for them.

Obviously, my point of view showed that I plan to “starve my darling, hardworking husband to death some day”

I respect our customs and traditions and I am not looking to flout them, I am not on a mission to disregard the way things had been done before my time.

Trying to explain didn’t help. I think I dug my grave further by saying

“if I was a housewife who didn’t have hectic hours then yeah, sure, why not? But if I was working and all, then sorry, I can’t do that….. all the time, wife doesn’t equal domestic help”

This time, I invoked a look of pity and maybe a hint of shame. One of those “where did I go wrong with this child” sort of looks. The disparity in our generations cannot be over emphasised and both sides can’t come to terms with either’s definition of the status quo.

You can trust that things got awkward for a few moments after that. File this under SNAFU

From my world with love,

R.J.