Those times come when you find
yourself helpless in the fangs of boredom. At those times, you discover that
your desire to get out of it is not quelled by any of the things you love: books,
music, movies, not even the chit chats you get into every now and then on your
chat apps. For me, such times birth reminiscences. Yesternight was one of such.
So, I decided to lie on the bed, flipping through my phone’s gallery, something
I do when I need to update my profile pictures on WhatsApp and BBM. Then, I
found this image. Irrelevant image, one will say, but it evoked a memory, a
not-so-important yet very important one.
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| Agege Bread |
The image reminded me of
hunger. Yes, that Agege bread
reminded me of nothing but hunger. Hunger, after a day, a whole day of scanning
through PDFs, feeling relieved when the relevant ones appeared and hitting the
delete button as I discovered some weren’t just going to do the work. It was one
hell of a day, of copying and pasting, and drawing conclusions (and previewing
movies too). It was my long essay; it was worth it. But hunger visited when I
least expected, late in the night. I had not thought about it until it struck.
So, I shut down Tobby and headed for my room. I
hadn’t walked too far before I remembered that there was nothing to eat in the
room. Being the person I am (I rarely eat out), and in that condition, I would
have gladly eaten anything, and from anywhere. But there was none. It was past
twelve, there was no eatery. I accepted my fate and continued trekking.
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| You know me? I am 'risky'! |
Minutes from getting to my
hall, there was this flicker. It was not far. Something to eat, I hoped. I
trekked in the direction with the mind of trying my luck. It was food. ‘Risky’ (not sure this is the correct spelling
but it sha sounds like that), that’s the name. ‘Risky’? Oh yeah, R.I.S.K.Y. I
don’t know why it is called that. Moreover, I cannot deny that the name chased
me away from the delicacy until that night. I had no choice; I needed to feed
the worms threatening to rip my tummy into shreds. I placed my order: seventy
naira bread and one egg. I paid and the seller went to work. He cut the bread
into two and fried the egg, which he did kind of hastily. He performed some
other culinary juju and whisked the
whole thing into the middle of the bread’s mouth. He put the bread back into
the frying pan and pressed it down with his knife. Seconds after, I was on the
way to my room with ‘risky’.
Getting to my room, I splayed
‘risky’. I was not moved by its good smell; I took shots of it. I did that with
the mind that in case I died before daybreak, someone looking for pictures to
be used for obituary posters would find them.
My ghost didn’t write this
post. I did. I didn’t die. And I regret my years of dodging ‘risky’. Here’s
what I typed on my phone’s note after eating ‘risky’:
Four years, I considered it what it was really
called. ‘Risky’ is its name. It’s one egg or more fucking bread, seventy naira
bread... It’s a union of some sort; pleasurable to the eater who orgasms in
belches. It’s actually not risky eating ‘risky’. (7/6/2014)
The ‘risky’ experience happened
some two months ago and while typing this post, it dawned that there is
something to pick from it. Life could be like ‘risky’, the strange, un-tasted
and un-tested. Trying out new things could come with fear and risk. I agree,
but with it also comes new, worthwhile experiences. You agree?
2 comments:
I wouldn't try it because of what it is called either
@ Tessa. Hehehe... I wouldn't have tried it too but the situation I found myself made me to.
Thanks for reading.
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