Papa

Papa is a very caring man; he has always been.

When we were small and mama was always busy with her trade, trying to help Papa negotiate through the difficulties of Babangida rule, Papa would always cook for us.

In addition to cooking, he would bathe us and comb our hair, carefully, applying that old 'hair oil' on our stubborn hair and then, creating side partings in them. He handled us one after another, until he had taken care of all of us.

His cooking was unconventional yet, always very tasty.

He would boil rice and then, in a weird manner (weird because, it differed from mama's ways which we had grown to see as the standard,) add different ingredients into the boiling rice. Sliced tomatoes with Nsukka yellow pepper, sliced onions, sliced arigbe with curry, fish, crayfish and the rest. He'd then, let the pot boil for a while, filling the rooms of our flat in ofuluonu, with a beautiful aroma. And then, like magic, he would dish into our plates, the very tasty meal.

We ate with relish. We always did, showing appreciation by shouting, one after another, 'thanks, sir,' from our room, after eating while he sat enjoying the fresh air, under the mango tree or getting his motorcycle ready for work, on the days he was on duty.

We always watched him. He let us watch so that we would learn how to cook and not burn down the house while using the kerosene stove and, he often used folk tales-interesting tales about 'mbe' and 'osa' to keep us interested in what he was doing.

He often told me, "Emeka, make sure you learn because one day you'll need to do this for your children." Papa always used soft advice to get into me.

So, I watched and watched, memorising every step. Just like I learnt everything else: how not to talk back at women, how to respect my sisters, how to stay out of trouble because as he put it, " trouble is money and akpata atufuo adịghị eme ọgaranya," how to keep trying to be better and better everyday in whatever I found myself doing; to focus on my studies so I'd become educated, like Prof Ngwu, etc,  from him.

That was how I got to learn how to cook the kind of rice you see in the picture. And boy, how has the skill saved my life. From my days on mountain Ararat, in front of imoke hostel, to my lonely days in ugwu'agbo village ituku, to NAUTH and then, now.

I'd just buy a few things and add them into a pot of boiling rice, like Papa used to do and boom, there'd suddenly, be something on my table to use and 'tachie ulcer,' like I have, this afternoon,  after two whole days of non stop work.

Believe me, the rice you're seeing looks unconventional, yes, but, trust me, it's very tasty.

The funny thing is that I'd just called Papa to thank him for teaching me a life saving skill and the old man was angry. He sighed very deeply, angry that I'd called not to tell him about how I'd get married but, some nonsense about food.

He told me to stop fooling around and go get married. Smh!