SOUP….AT LAST After nearly two weeks of nothing but burger and chips – and the occasional hurriedly and poorly cooked beans – your mouth begins to crave a different taste. The ‘un-synthetic’ taste of tropical culinary herbs and ‘malodorous’ condiments. Of cowhide cooked to a sensual softness. The earthy deliciousness! I’ve got to have some vegetable soup, man. Oha or bitter leaf. I call Joke. I’ve been over at her place a couple of times for dinner. She makes a mean egusi soup, though her eba is so soft it feels like trying to make dollops out of corn pap. The first time I dipped a hand in a plate of Joke’s eba, my reaction was: “Who makes eba this soft?” Her retort came fast, like she had been waiting for that reaction: “Mschew! Igbo boy...shut up and eat joor!” But I’m not calling Joke to invite myself over for dinner. I need her help with putting some dinners of my own in the fridge. She picks up after two rings and begins the conversation with what is fast becoming a tiresome opening: “So your Cameroonian abi na Congolese babe is not talking to you and you’ve remembered me, abi?” “There wouldn’t be a Cameroonian abi na Congolese babe in the first place if you weren’t playing impossible to get.” (For the record, there’s no Cameroonian abi na Congolese babe – don’t know where the heck she got that from.) She laughs a forced laugh. I think she needs the time the laugh lasts to think of an appropriate quip. Finally she settles for: “If I hear!” “Anyways, I’m calling ‘cause I need someone to help me make some soup –“ “I’ve told you before: I’m not cooking for you. I’m not your wife!” “Oh, shut up, you this girl. Who wants to lick your oil sef?” (It’s okay. It’s cool. Me and Joke, we throw ‘tribalist’ jabs at each other all the time.) “Ehn? ” she cries in mock anger, “ My own soup? Oil? Shey you go still come tomorrow and beg for food… “ “Yea, yea, I hear that. Listen, the other day you were talking about your friend who makes soup for people and gets paid for it…” “Oh, yea, Dora. You want her to make some for you?” “Yea.” “Ok…I’ll send her number.” A minute after she hangs up, a text comes in. Dora’s number. I call her immediately – and she answers immediately. “Hello!” Her voice is certainly cheery. The accent is somewhere between Nigerian and something I can’t quite tell. Probably a lot closer to “something I can’t quite tell” than to Nigerian. I want some soup? Sure she can have it ready in a few hours. A middle-sized container? £17.49. Yes, that includes delivery. Oha soup? Oh no, she doesn’t have that. Oha leaves are not easy to get here. Why doesn’t she make me some egusi? Egusi is fine, I say. Okay, then. In three hours. Click. Three hours later. I don’t know what I expected Dora to look like. Her voice on the phone was pleasant. But the mulatto girl standing next to Joke and holding a white bag containing what is probably my ‘order’ is stunning. Her braids are tightly gathered into a ponytail at the back of her head, showing off sultry cheek bones and accentuating her perfectly shaped skull. Her torso ends in lush flaring curves. Joke stands beside her, looking like that girl other girls don’t want in their picture but don’t quite have the mind to tell so. No, I kid; Joke is quite attractive herself. Tall. A little K-legged, but that’s appealing in its own way. I only wish she takes more care of her hair. Sometimes her hair looks like someone started shearing a sheep, then got bored halfway through a messy job and went off to do something else. “I put a lot of fish in it. Hope you like fish,” Dora says as she extends the white bag to me with a smile. The way her eyes narrow when she smiles…. “Oh, yes, I like fish.” “So you’re Igbo.” She says. It isn’t a question. “Yes. And you are half-Nigerian.” “Yes. My mum is Igbo. From Imo State. A place called Ike…Ike....” She pauses. Takes a breath. Swallows sputum. And tries again. She looks so cute struggling with her mum’s hometown like that. “Ikedr…” “Ikeduru?” I offer. “Yes!Yes! You know the place?” “Not really. I come from the neighbouring state though. Anambra.” She looks a little puzzled. “You’ve never heard of Anambra, have you?” I ask. She laughs, somewhat embarrassed, and says “No.” “Okay, if you two are done with your Ohaneze meeting, this Yoruba girl would like to go back inside. I have a paper to work on!” Joke cuts in. Then she turns to Dora with the same half-joking, half-irritated tone: “Oya, you’ve delivered what you came to deliver. Let’s see you off so I can get back to work.” We walk with Dora up the road to ASDA supermarket, throw a couple of parting jokes at one other ( but mainly at Joke) then she hugs us both, before striding across the supermarket’s premises towards Chester Street, her ponytail swaying this way and that behind her pristine yellow neck. I imagine she hugged me a little too long. “Call me and tell me if you like the soup,” she had said while she hugged me. “Dora is fine,” I say to Joke as we walk back home. “She has a boyfriend”, she says shortly. “So… she’s not fine because she has a boyfriend?” “I’m just saying.” I come close to Joke’s ear and whisper harshly: “You jealous!” She protests sharply: “Tah, gerraway! Stop spitting in my ear, biko!” “You know we could be on like crazy, if you just stop doing shakara.” “Mschew… you are just a nonsense boy”. But her face loses its mordant expression and softens into a coy smile. I see that familiar look in her eyes again. That is-he-still-clowning-around-or-is-he-getting-serious look. I smile, too. I’m not sure myself if I’m still clowning around or getting serious. We get to her hall. She says, “Bye”, and goes in. I continue alone down the road, my thoughts darting from Dora’s cheekbones to Joke’s beautifully imperfect legs, before finally settling on the egusi soup in the white bag in my hands. Ah, finally, some soup!
Posted on: Sat, 28 Jun 2014 04:25:36 +0000
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