Image source: MetaAi
“Madam Rose, the rice is burning” said one of the women who was also cooking from another angle. It was a great party. Music was playing heavily from the outskirts of the compound. The entire veranda was left for the women to position their cooking utensils and cook whatever they are good at. Some women focused on rice, which happens to be the most eaten food. Others cooked local dishes. The children were not left out as they ensured that water was available in all corners. From the other end was a group of men arranging meat for the women to be used for their cooking. The younger males were outside positioning, canopies and chairs for guests. The weather was clement and the sun had begun to rise, and the whole community knew that a big party was about to take place at Mr. Lawrence’s compound. As culture demands, the host will have to visit the women and give them drinks. This is to show that she appreciates the effort of the women.
“Women are the strength of the society”, he called out as he appeared with a crate of soft drinks. The women shouted in excitement and began to sing a song composed by them to fit the occasion of the day. All of them gathered around Mr. Lawrence as they danced to the tune of the music. The place was lively, they took their drinks from him and shared them among themselves.
“Madam Rose, your rice is burning”, came the voice the second time, this time with a tap on her shoulder. She turned, and it was Mrs. Glory. After repeating herself the third time, both of them left for their cooking corner.
Mr. Lawrence got married to his beloved wife ten years ago, and the wife has been unable to give birth, despite all efforts by the doctors and nurses, which have amounted to nothing. But this time, she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy.
Nearly everyone was invited to the dedication ceremony, which was to take place in the church, while the reception and party were to happen at home.
It was midday and the sun was up in the sky, the church service was over and many people started trooping to the house. Some women who were cooking had already finished cooking, some had left for church, while a few of them had stayed back to put the remaining things in place.
The DJ, on the other hand, was doing what he was paid to do, playing all genres of music to the satisfaction of his customers. Members of the church, as well as those of the community, were already seated; those who couldn’t find a seat hung around the compound, observing and waiting for food to be shared.
The party began and Mr. Lawrence was the first to speak. As a man who is good with words and has a sense of humour, he took the microphone and spoke fluently in his native language, saluting all and sundry.
“As you all know, I was pregnant for nine months”, he said, rubbing his stomach. Everyone in the audience laughed. “I was in great discomfort and pain” The laughter increased. “So one day”, he continued, “I was relieved of the pains and a bouncing baby boy was born” The audience clapped. He left the mic with his wife, and she began with a song, and also tears running through her eyes. She couldn’t say much but in the end, she said “glory be to God”.
Not long after, everyone was invited to dance with the celebrant, and food was shared with everyone, and they were all filled.
In a typical African party, special guests are taken care of exceptionally, with their meals different from those of others.
After the dance, many people met with the celebrants for special recognition and to give their gifts. On occasions such as this, the celebrant hardly recognises all the attendees because pleasantries would be flying around like war planes. Lawrence, was busy with handshakes when someone appeared. Suddenly, his mood changed, hunger and fear took hold of him, and he suddenly began to sweat. Lawrence, in his wildest imagination, wouldn’t have thought that his guest would come to his child's dedication.
With a red gown, high heels, well-permed hair, eyelashes and artificial nails, she took off her dark eyeglasses and walked up to him and whispered, “Mr. Lawrence, how is your wife”? Nobody noticed the sudden change in Lawrence’s appearance and countenance, but inside of him he was dying off. After a moment, he located his inconsiderate guest and went up to her in one of the rooms.
“What are you doing here”? He asked, his heart shaking
“You thought I wouldn’t locate you? She asked, looking sternly at him
“It happened a very long time ago, I didn’t mean to abandon you”, he said, looking dejected. “I can give you anything you want….”
“No need to be worried, I came to celebrate with you and your family and not to open old wounds” she interrupted him.
He sends out a warm breath, got back his strength and was able to look her in the face and said “thank you”
The conversation would have continued, but the man on the mic was persistently calling out the chief celebrant.
No one knows what transpired many years ago between Lawrence and his purported guest; the issue still remains secret to this day.
I liked when Mr. Lawrence joked he was pregnant for nine months, making everyone laugh. The women singing after getting drinks showed the happy mood before the mysterious guest arrived, adding surprise and tension.
Thanks ...that was a comic relief
"The weather was clement" I think you meant "calm"
"Lawrence in his wildest imagination wouldn't have thought that "his guest" should be "this guest." I stand to be corrected too.
I love your story because I thought the celebration would be ruined due to this unexpected guest but knowing she came just to celebrate was a relief. I am curious about what transpired between them and I promise not to tell his wife.
All fine and good. The author may keep secrets from the guests, or from any character in the story. However, the author should never keep secrets from the reader. As it is, the story builds well. Readers are interested, intrigued. In the end, they feel ticked, even cheated, when the author does not tell them what has happened.
This is a good story, but we need more. We need the mystery solved.
Thanks for posting it in the Inkwell.
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