Eba was made to humble Nigerians
I rather like the art of recreational eating, infact, when hunger isn’t burning a hot trail through my senses I’m quite good at it.
I dare say I’ve perfected that adamant look; the one where you raise one spoon of whatever you’re eating just inches away from your lips and then look around unconcerned as if to imply that you’re not really invested in the outcome of its trip to your mouth.
When I am hungry, I am invested!!!
I want the spoon to make it! My stomach and all my senses are rooting for those grains of rice. Infact, the faster they are, the louder the rejoicing on my insides, but this life is wicked.
It was the day that I settled on eba to cure my hunger pangs, the day that only draw soup suited my appetite. The day I hungrily gazed upon my perfectly sculpted ball now dripping with soup that my brain had already given a hundred. The day that my white shirt was marred by the evidence of one initial shaky journey, the day that I had practically wiped my soup plate clean, mentally congratulating myself as I took the last scoop.
It had to be this day that the Kunle that I had not set eyes on since our break-up suddenly walked into the restaurant and locked eyes with me.
This Kunle that I had told whilst still doing new relationship shakara that I absolutely did not eat swallow, infact, that I was allergic to it.
I have decided that Nigerians are not created to be a proud people that in one fell swoop, the Lord introduced us to eba and declared us a humble clan. So I was not mortified o! I merely gave each finger a deserving lick whilst still holding his gaze, washed my hands and then proceeded to sail out of there.