Jide didn't have plans of stopping by the popular buka (local restaurant) that early morning. He had heard so much about their delicious food from his colleagues, but he didn't for once imagine himself eating in such a spot.
But that morning, he found his legs moving faster than his brain to the direction of the buka. He couldn't tell what was drawing him closer to that spot. But he just couldn't resist the aroma
of wood-smoked jollof rice, thick with tomato, spice, and something else. Something familiar.
He looked at his watch, and in a few minutes, he would be late for work. He thought of going back. But it was too late. He was already inside, in a space filled with nothing special other than wooden benches, aluminum trays filled with steaming food, a woman in a faded wrapper stirring a pot, and the smell of something familiar.
“Oga, wetin you go chop? (What do you like to eat?)” A young lady in her early twenties walked up to him and asked him if he could take his seat.
Jide swallowed hard. He knew what he wanted and he couldn't wait to taste it. “Just give me jollof rice. Add dodo. Plus goat meat. Una get goat meat abi? (You have goat meat right?)”
The young girl smiled. Now Jide could see the resemblance with the woman sitting by the fire stirring the pot.
“Goat meat no dey finish for our pot. (We don't lack goat meat),” she replied and walked away.
He sat on the wooden bench waiting for his order. His eyes glanced through his watch from time to time. His fingers tap against his knee as he waits for his food. Soon he watched her return with a plate filled with red rice, the fried plantains stacked beside it, the chunk of goat meat half-soaked in sauce. He stared at it intently.
"Thank you," he said as the young girl walked away.
Nothing in that plate looked familiar. He could swear on it. But what was it? What was it that had dragged him there? His mouth watered as he picked up a spoon and took a bite.
And just like that, he was home.
Now he could remember the aroma and why it was familiar. It was the smell of home every Sunday. The taste in his mouth was like the taste of his mother's party jollof. He shut his eyes and remembered their small dining table in Ibadan, his father’s loud radio playing in the background. He remembered his mother serving them the hot Sunday jollof. And his younger siblings waited patiently for prayers to be made over the food so they could pounce on it like hungry lions.
It was like their Sunday ritual. A ritual that brought them closer. He missed it. He missed his people. He missed the coarse laughter of his father who had died of cardiac arrest a few months before he got a job in Lagos.
He pressed his fingers into his spoon. He couldn't bear the death of his father. To avoid the pain, he had avoided home for years.
He exhaled and opened his eyes to see the woman who was stirring the pot before sitting so close to him.
“Oga, you dey alright? (Are you alright?)”
He nodded, with a forced smile. “Yes, I am. It's just the food, it reminds me of home.”
The woman chuckled and wiped her hands on her wrapper. “Good food should be able to tell a story. It should be a memory. You must be missing your people.”
Jide nodded. "I've not been home for a long time now." He let his stare fall to the food.
"Then maybe it's a sign that home misses you too. Maybe it's time to go home." She tapped his shoulder and stood up to attend to other customers.
“Thank you,” Jide said as she left. He couldn't argue it. He has been a coward for a long time. Avoiding the pain at home and not mourning with his people. But not anymore. It was time to go home.
He looked at his plate of Jollof rice, it was already cold by now. He called the young girl and asked for a takeaway pack and his bills. He was already late to munch on the cold rice.
Soon he was walking out of the buka with his order and a reminder that it was time to visit home.