Lunch With My Father
June 26th
“The first problem for us all, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn” — Gloria Steinem
I don’t get to cook often.
I somehow escaped learning to cook as a child, despite my many memories of various adults passing running commentary on how useless my sisters and I would become as wives if we didn’t know how to cook.
I learned out of necessity.
I like food, and as a college student with competing priorities, one cannot always afford to eat at nice restaurants, and so, when I had eaten enough of cheap junk food, I taught myself how to cook.
But, I don’t get to do it often anymore.
I invited my parents over to my house for the first time, and decided I’d make a meal for my family. Even though I have been married for almost 6 months it was the first time they were visiting, a fact that, coincidentally, I had mentioned in passing to a friend a few days ago;
“Do you remember how it was before you got married? All the pressure from family asking you where the man was, and then when a man appeared, it was the pressure to make sure you got a ring. Then the crazy wedding planning, and every aunt and every woman in your family on your neck. Is it just me, or after you get married, everything seems to go silent?”
I prepared a simple meal: Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, rice & beans, creamed spinach and a roast veggie salad. One of my greatest pleasures is hosting people at our table; My heart is at its happiest when the laughter of kindred spirits coats the walls of our home.
So we laughed. And talked. And ate, and ate to our hearts content. (I have to confess that it is a great feeling when you are complimented on your cooking. Especially when, as an African, compliments from your parents are few and far between.)
When they were ready to leave, my wonderful, beloved father turns to my husband and says “Thank you for a great afternoon and for feeding us”.
My mouth dropped open.
I had gone grocery shopping the day before, and had been awake since 8.30am prepping and marinating and preparing for our guests. I didn’t expect any special award or recognition for that because I chose to do it. But I also didn’t expect that as a good Nigerian woman, I was expected to shrink behind my husband as he was formally thanked for my work.
I decided this was as good a time as any to begin the learning & unlearning, the teaching and correcting.
“Daddy, I bought and cooked all the food, You can’t thank him and at least, not thank me.”
He laughed, the sort of indulgent laughter of a man used to dealing with a troublesome daughter.
“I thanked your husband, its the same thing. It extends to you”
Nah.
My mother snorted.
I inherited a lot from my father;
His spirit.
His face.
His confusing ability to be both quiet and have a roaring temper.
Thinking back on countless events hosted at our house, I catch glimpses in my memory, of men sitting around the living room, drinking, eating and being boisterous, with the women fleeting in and out of the kitchen, and serving, always serving.
Looking at my mother, I wonder now, if anyone ever remembers to thank her.
“You have to say thank you to me.” Since you’re handing out thank-yous.
Two simple words, taken for granted.
Women, always taken for granted.
I understand, they are of a different generation; the ones who think servitude is engraved into a woman’s DNA. The ones who’s wives are decorative ornaments and seat fillers.
But, I refuse to continue with the mistakes of our mothers.
He paused.
“Okay Sorry, madam feminist. Thank you to BOTH of you for a lovely afternoon, and thank you for our meal”.
My mother beamed, like I had stolen back all the thank you’s she never received.
My name is Ozzy, and I want to be your teacher.
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