There’s this food joint near my church I’ll never forget. It was constructed on the corner of the street, squeezed in between a tailor’s shop and a tiny provision store that always smelled like detergent. The joint wasn’t fancy. It had plastic chairs in all colors that never matched and tables that leaned if you pressed too hard, and there was a fan too in the corner but never for once did I meet that fan on but they always brought it out. Maybe it was some kind of decor. The walls weren’t painted obviously because the food joint was constructed with wood and tarp but nobody cared because we didn’t go there for looks. We went for the food, and for something else I can’t quite name but still feel when I think about it.
The first time I went there was when my church held an all night program. I was hungry and one of the friends I made in church dragged me there, swearing their sauce was magic. I doubted it at first glance at the place but one spoonful of that sauce mixed with rice had me hooked. After that, the joint became part of my routine. In fact I think I began attending evening services because I wanted to eat there.
One rainy evening stands out the most. After cleaning during one of the services, the sky opened up, almost drenching us before we could run to where we could get a taxi. My friend and I dashed into the joint. Our pockets were almost empty, but we managed to scrape enough for one plate of jollof rice and one piece of fried meat. We sat together, two of us, there was no table for us because the joint was crowded that evening and the other customers used it although the tables were too small for comfort. The woman behind the makeshift counter gave us a knowing look, half amusement, half pity, before placing the plate between us on the bench we sat on.
With the rain drumming heavily on the tarp, we ate slowly, as if stretching the rice could stretch the evening itself. Between mouthfuls, we joked and laughed too loudly as we thought of how to walk in the rain before we could find a taxi to convey us home. But, for a while seated there, the world outside didn’t really matter to me. I mean the rain, few bills, the deadlines with school work I had, all of it vanished. I was mostly focused on that laughter I shared with my friend and that single plate of food between us.
I no longer go to church as often as I used to but each time church crosses my mind, the joint does too, oddly. The last time I was in that environment, the lady that ran the food joint wasn’t there and that was surprising but I silently wished she was okay.
Writing this, I think, it wasn’t really about the tasty food sold there. Maybe it was but there was also this sense of belonging each time I was there. There was a little bit of warmth too and those memories are stuck with me.
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Beautiful piece. Love this line:
You know your writing inspires me to write beautifully too.
Thank you so much:)
Awww 🤍🤍🤍🤍