I have seen many strange things in my life. I have watched my uncle argue with a police officer over a bribe, insisting he was simply "paying his respects." I have witnessed my neighbor tie a live chicken to his generator, claiming it would make the fuel last longer. But nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever confused me as much as my Auntie Margaret and her coffee-drinking habits.
Auntie Margaret is a woman of faith. A devout churchgoer, she’s part of the women’s fellowship leadership and never misses a night vigil. She wears her gele(headtie) so high it nearly scrapes the heavens, and she sprinkles “Hallelujah” into everyday conversation like a spice. But every morning at exactly 7:00 AM, she does something that leaves me almost questioning everything I know about human behavior and religious piety.
It starts with her cup. Not an ordinary mug, no. Auntie Margaret insists on using a small teacup she got as a souvenir from her Papa’s(church founder) wedding. She calls it “blessed.” According to family legend, the cup survived a kitchen fire, a flood, and one particularly aggressive rat invasion. The rest of us use normal cups, but Auntie Margaret? No. That teacup is her holy grail.
Aunty Maggie's holy grail
Then comes the coffee itself. But not just any coffee. Auntie Margaret prepares hers with a level of care that borders on witchcraft. First, she boils water—not just any water, but "special anointed water" she gets from her church retreats. Then, she adds a generous heap of instant coffee, stirs it, and finally, she drops in exactly three cubes of sugar—never more, never less. “Three represents the Trinity,” she once whispered solemnly, when I asked why.
Aunty Maggie's holy trinity
Instead of drinking the coffee like a normal human being, she dips her agege bread(local roadside bread) into it.
Now, let me explain something. Dipping bread in tea filled with milk can be understandable over here, but dipping it in dark coffee? That’s a no-no. But every morning, without fail, Auntie Margaret dunks an entire chunk of it into her coffee and lets it sit there for seconds, absorbing every drop like a thirsty sponge.
When she finally lifts it to her mouth, the bread has transformed into a limp, brown mess. But she doesn’t mind. She eats it with the delight of someone who has just tasted heaven.
“Ah! Sweet like the love of Jesus,” she sighs, eyes closed in ecstasy.
The first time I witnessed this, I thought maybe it was a one-time thing. Perhaps she was in a hurry. Perhaps she had run out of milk. But no. This was her sacred morning ritual. Coffee. Bread. Dunk. Wait. Eat. Sigh.
I could not take it anymore. One morning, I sat across from her and cleared my throat.
“Auntie, why do you do this thing?”
She looked at me with genuine confusion. “Do what?”
“This… this bread-dipping… situation.”
She blinked at me, as if I had just asked why the sun rises. “My dear, do you know how many blessings this coffee has absorbed? The anointed water, the holy number three, the morning prayers… When I dip the bread, I am partaking in all these things at once.”
I stared at her, trying to decide whether she was making sense or if I had finally lost my abilities to understand.
“Have you ever tried it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I hesitated. “No, but—”
“Then how can you understand?” she said, dunking another piece of bread with an air of finality.
That was the day I decided to take a leap of faith. The next morning, I took a piece of agege bread, braced myself, and dipped it into my own cup of coffee. I waited. I lifted it. I took a bite.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the worst things I had ever tasted.
The bread was soggy, lifeless, and the coffee had soaked in all the wrong places. I struggled to chew as my tongue rebelled against the atrocity I had just committed. Across the table, Auntie Margaret watched me with amusement.
“You didn’t let it soak long enough,” she said, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake.”
From that day forward, I stopped questioning Auntie Margaret’s habits. Some mysteries are not meant to be solved. Like why Power Company takes light only when it is most inconvenient or why Nigerian weddings never start on time.
And so, every morning, I watch in quiet admiration as she dips her bread, hums her gospel songs, and enjoys her coffee in peace. Because, at the end of the day, who am I to argue with faith?
- All images are mine