Sunday 21 June 2015

This is not about Yoruba boys.

I could say it was luck, or my father's love but I've only known great guys.  And I don't mean know in the Biblical sense, you people should renew your minds.

Most of my friends are male and they are all just plain awesome. Not to talk of the hubby; a wonderful man, that one. He has to be, to have stuck with me these many years.

Because I've been showered with nothing but love since childhood from my dad, I've come to expect nothing but love from men, and usually, that's what I get.

Actually, I did have a not very nice experience and guess what? He was Yoruba. Lol. Have I joined the Yoruba boys' slander?

Happy Fathers day!

Friday 19 June 2015

Does cooking make you a better bae?

I got you with the title, didn't I? No, this post is not about baes and cooks biko. There's enough of that on twitter.

You guys totally need to see Spy. Some rib cracking stuff in there. Miranda Lambert has or used to have a program on BBC called Miranda about herself. You should see that too. No one does humour like the Brits.

But that's not why I came here. Remember I was telling you about fat America. Well, there's something really small about them; their shorts. Everyone, I mean every one wears bum shorts and you're thinking didn't they have enough material to make it slightly longer but here's the great part, no one seems to notice or care.  Come and wear bum shorts and walk past Yaba. You go know something.
They are also very stingy with in flight service. On a two hour flight from Houston to Indianapolis, they served me a tiny bag of peanuts with not more than 15 grains inside. 15! When I was a cabin crew, we served Eba in flights. Yes, Eba.

On the flight back to London, I get a bad headache. I've suffered headaches since I was a kid and often carry painkillers around but on this flight, I've got none. What I have in my bag, instead is a bar of chocolate.  So I ask a crew member for paracetamol. He tells me I don't need one, that he's flown many pharmacists and they say paracetamol only ruins the stomach. I'm thinking better a ruined stomach than a ruined head but before I get the chance to say so, he grabs my two hands, starts massaging somewhere between my thumb and my index finger. What therapy is this?

Do I feel better, he asks? I nod slowly. I don't but he had such a kind face and hopeful eyes, I couldn't break his heart so I risked breaking my own head enduring the headache for the remainder of the flight.  And guess what, Michelle Obama decides to follow me to East London on same day. It takes nearly three hours to get to my abode. Sometimes life is hard.

But that's also not why I came here. I wanted to show you what I cooked. Considering that I'm Ibibio and I run a restaurant, you'd think I love to cook. Fire. But I cook, for many reasons. And quite well too, I think maybe those of us from that part of town were all born with wooden spoons or something. 

There's another skill they say we were born with. But that's a story for another day. 

PS. The picture has refused to upload. Sowie.

Thursday 18 June 2015

Becoming an Americanah

I first went to the States, two years ago (yes, I know some of you were born there, duh!) after I'd just read Americanah. I was going to write a post : Becoming an Americanah which would have been my experience both in the country and with the book but I never got round to it. It's too late now but I decided to still keep the title. 

Five cities , two weeks,  and an empty bank account later;  I’m back home. 

My mum doesn't understand my wandering spirit and even though I’m nearly 40, I’m still afraid of that woman. How do I tell her I’m traveling, alone, and for no just cause? Fortunately she doesn't pick the phone, but my happiness is short lived; she calls me back right after.

Mama:  How are you?

Me:        I’m fine. Errrrrrm, I’m at the airport.

Mama:  Doing what?

I’m tempted to be sarcastic but I decide I might not be able to handle her come back. My mum owns sarcasm.

Me:      I’m going to the States.

Mama:  To do what?

Me:      Holiday

Mama:  Aren't the kids in school?

Me:       Yes, they are. I’m going alone.

Mama:  You say?

Me:       My flight is boarding now, we’ll talk later.

I’m temporarily saved. She probably thinks I’m running away from home. I know she’s going to call the hubby next. I do not envy him. I went to study just after a year in marriage, my mum said it was a crazy idea and that I’d return home and one Nkechinyere will open the door asking who I am. It didn’t happen. Perhaps Nkechi left just before I got back.

I love London. It’s one of my favourite cities in the world so even though this was a US  trip, I stopped by London just to run after trains and listen to unruly teenagers fling swear words about. How do African parents cope in the West? This race for trains and buses is probably why you hardly see fat people in the city which is how I’m welcomed to the States: Everything gets larger. From meal portions to roads, to humans, this is one Fat country.

I will never understand why Nigerians affect the American accent. I insist that the Nigerian accent is way cooler. Warer. Really? Which is one of the few reasons I liked Ifemelu, her conscious effort to retain her Nigerian accent. Let me quickly add that I love Chimamada Adichie. She can do no wrong in my eyes. I think she’s one of the best things to happen to Nigeria except when she said they couldn’t find anyone good enough in Nollywood to play Kaine. Then the movie bombed and I got my pound of flesh. 1 – 1 girl. Evil grin.

There are many things that shocked me about America, for one, they do not have malteesers but I’ll tell you more about my experience in America later.  Let me go cook so that my mother’s nightmare doesn’t come true.

Welcome to my world.