The first time I attempted to prepare a meal was at my aunt's place. It was during one of the school vacations, and I had gone to spend the holiday with her, as I usually did every other school vacation.
I was more than excited to go to her place during that time, not that I hadn't been excited before, but that particular holiday was different for a good reason.
Her oldest son, whom I sometimes referred to as big brother, was going to be around throughout the period I was to spend with them. He happened to be my favorite cousin, and I loved spending time with him and his younger brother, who was almost the same age as me, rather than spending time with the only daughter they had. It's not that I hated her or had something against her; I just connected more with the boys. Their presence just made everything perfect.
As I arrived at their home, I could hardly contain my joy. I was happy as a clam to see my aunt and family. The youngest boy, who was my best buddy, had been anticipating my arrival. When he saw me, he couldn't contain himself; he was over the moon and almost made me fall down as he hugged me. It was great to be with them.
After settling in, I went over to my big brother's room to spend some moments with him and his siblings and catch up on each other's lives. It was at that time they told me they'd be going to their dad's village to attend a relative's burial, and probably wouldn't immediately after the burial. They asked me to convince their mom, to allow me go with them, but I, on my part, was reluctant because I knew no one from their dad's side. And even though I would be going with them, I was sure I wouldn't feel comfortable there. So, I just opted to stay with my aunt (their mom) and accompany her on the actual day of the burial.
Staying with her meant taking over, and caring for the house, cleaning, washing, and running other errands, which of course, was no big deal.
I mean, I had been doing that at home.
But then the real challenge began when I offered to prepare a dinner of porridge, ripe plantain, and beans after my cousins had left for the village.
I had seen my siblings prepare that several times, so I decided to give it a try after my aunt complained she was too tired and stressed to cook.
She was skeptical at first and doubted if I could handle it because she knew I was not allowed to make meals at home, considering I was the last child and had many older siblings. But I assured her that I would.
So I thought.🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️
I entered the kitchen, eager to showcase my culinary skills.
Laughs in food poisoning.🤣🤣🤣🤣
I began by cooking the beans, which of course was the start of my woes. I had seen my siblings cook the beans first before adding plantain and other ingredients, but I didn't know to which extent the beans were supposed to be cook before adding the plantain and ingredients. I didn't want to ask my aunt to avoid confirming the fears she had when I offered to cook.
I just poured in the plantain after draining the initial water I had added to the beans and added a new one.
I added the rest of the ingredients as well and waited for it to be done. A few minutes later, I checked to see if the meal was done, and yes, the plantain was well-cooked, but the beans were still as hard as rock.
I reported myself to my aunt, and I was told to serve the meal. We managed to eat it, and regretted afterwards.
Throughout the night, we took turns using the toilet, and it turned into a somewhat comical situation. You know that feeling when it seems like you urgently need to poo, only to find the toilet occupied, leaving you banging and yelling for the occupant to hurry up? That was exactly the case.
After we recovered, my aunt provided me with some medicine. I took it and, as a 12-year-old, I went to bed, comforting myself with the thought that none of my mates could even lit a stove.
credits
first image from freepik