Surviving the African Parent

 

  This story was possible thanks to a lovely lady from the East. My dad understands me... at least when it comes to what I eat... as far as unhealthy goes. I get a constant supply of skittles. Thanks to him, I've tasted every skittle that was ever made. If I want to be mad at him, I just remember all the skittles he bought for me  (usually because I am eating skittles...that he bought...while I am mad) I don't know what I'd do without my dad... and skittles? What's your comfort food? She really asked me that. Coincidentally, my favorite sweets are skittles too. What are yours?

 

  This story was possible thanks to lovely lady who took a bit too much joy in telling this story. It was a regular Sunday afternoon lunch.     That special afternoon that everyone has to come down to the dining table and eat lunch like all those families we see in movies. Who invented that anyways? They laugh, joke and talk about their lives on a dining table positioned in a way that conveniently lets in light from the bay window in the background, accentuating everyone's faces perfectly. They have inside jokes, a dog and a ridiculous amount of food for just five people. Well, for starters, my family has six people. Not really the picture perfect number. My younger sister had a giant pimple on her nose (I remember because my brother mocked her about it). There was no perfect window with perfect lighting... and there were exactly six plates of food on the table (have you read about our economy recently???) Soooo not a textbook movie lunch. As I mentioned earlier, my ...

This story was possible thanks to a wonderful lady. This is not what you think it'll be. It's not a story where I complain about how overbearing my mother is in the kitchen - even though she is. Neither is it a story of how much I loove cooking with my mother - I don't. It's not even a hilarious story of something that happened in the kitchen between the two of us. When I 'cook with my mom' ... I prepare the ingredients and she's watching TV in her room. I fry the protein, she's watching TV I add the ingredients to the pot, she's watching TV The food is almost ready.  She smells something cooking,   comes to the kitchen and takes as many pieces of protein as she can before walking back to her room. 

 

  This story was possible thanks to wonderful lady willing to share her story. We were in our room chilling.  It was a normal day like any other except dad couldn't find mom. It all started normally, then it evolved... like one of those thrillers you see on TV. It was heart pumping and horrifying. Dad searched and searched round the house until he came to their bathroom door. It was locked. He called for her once, twice, thrice,  his voice getting louder with each attempt. No response. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, his voice now holding a desperate plea Nothing on the other end. By then, we had come out of our room, crowding around him, all paralyzed with fear. Dad began to hit the door. With each hit, it came further and further away from the hinges. We were all wracked with fear, wondering what lay behind the soon-to-be non-existent door. A final heave and it came crashing down. Like a prelude to her exit, out strolled our mother, side stepping the wrecked door ...

 

 

  This story was possible thanks to a wonderful Nigerian lady. When you say birthday cake, you think of your favourite cake flavor covered in icing, presented to you on your special day. You think of all the attention being on you and all the scrumptious flavors of your cake melting in your mouth. Well, next year, my brother is getting a birthday cake. More importantly, he's getting a birthday cake made entirely of akara .   This is as a result of SOMEONE (my brother in case I wasn't clear enough) complaining one too many times about the akara we eat on Saturday mornings. My mother finally lost it and screamed "You are getting an akara birthday cake next year!!!" or something along those lines. Just a lot less nicer and with a lot more Igbo. I hope he gets it.