Cooking For Big Madam
1374 Words
As the golden sun dipped beneath the horizon, its orange rays bathed the compound in a lazy warmth. The air was thick with the scent of fried plantain from a nearby vendor and the soft murmur of insects beginning their nightly symphony. Outside the estate gate, Ayobami and Kabiru sat side by side on a weather-beaten bench, chilling with fried plantains and palm wine with their shoulders slouched in relaxation, their laughter bouncing off the walls like the rhythm of an old song.
"That Araire," Ayobami said with a scornful shake of his head, "na real spoilt brat. No be small wahala she be."
Kabiru nodded knowingly, his face furrowed like a well-used map. “Ah, I sabi wetin you dey talk, my friend. That girl? She fit use eye pursue lion comot from jungle. I don dey work for this family since dem dey use Motorola phone. Twenty-six whole years.”
Ayobami's eyes widened. “Twenty-six years? Kabiru! No wonder you resemble Bible prophet. You sure say you no dey see Methuselah for dream?”
Kabiru burst into a deep, raspy laugh, his chest bouncing beneath his worn uniform. “Wetin you expect? When I start this work, my beards still dey black. Now see am — all white like I dey audition for Father Christmas!”
Both men cackled, their joy genuine and free. But soon, Ayobami’s laughter faded, his expression growing serious. “You don dey here long, Kabiru. You don watch that girl grow up, abi?”
Kabiru sighed, a long, heavy breath that carried the weight of memories. “I watch her from when she dey crawl. Senator love her pass him own shadow. Anything she want, she get. She cry for toy, them import am. She shout for cook, them sack am. But respect? E vanish from her blood since.”
Kabiru leaned in, his voice low and nostalgic. “Yet, Senator na good man o. That man buy me house for Ajah — mansion, no be face-me-I-face-you. My children dey abroad; my wife no dey stress me. I get big Mercedes car wey Senator buy for me, still I remain here because my heart tie to this house. Na loyalty keep me.”
Ayobami whistled. “Ah, you don hammer! If na me, I for don use retirement run go Canada. To dey open gate for madam with razor mouth no be my dream.”
Kabiru chuckled. “She dey misbehave, no doubt. But one day, life go humble her. Money no be the answer to everything.”
Ayobami squinted at the stars as they began to form in the sky. “I go make sure she learn small lesson before I commot here. Not wickedness o — just sense,” he said, a mischievous smile curling on his lips.
Kabiru’s face grew stern. “No go overdo am, Ayobami. Make she no roast you like suya. Play smart, but respect still dey. That girl fit carry your matter go Senator ear, and before you blink, na your shadow go dey collect gate allowance.”
Ayobami raised both hands like an innocent child. “I go calm down. Just small pepper, no be full stew.”
They chuckled again until a voice cut through the night like a command from the heavens.
"Ayobami!" came the sharp call.
They froze.
Ayobami rolled his eyes. “See wetin I talk? She don dey call again. Throat no dey pepper her. Wetin she want this time?”
Kabiru tilted his chin toward the house. “Na you she call. Go now before her scream blow GRA transformer.”
With a long sigh, Ayobami stood and stretched. “If she send me go buy sanitary pad for midnight again, I go just japa.”
He sauntered toward the house, dragging his feet like a prisoner on his final walk. Entering the kitchen, he found Araire standing with a packet of noodles in each hand like she was handling gold. She turned around slowly, her brows furrowed in intense concentration, like a scientist mid-experiment.
“Ayobami,” she said, her voice clipped and imperious, “I need you to prepare these noodles. The maid is still on leave, and I’m not in the mood to cook.”
Ayobami blinked. “Yes, madam,” he said, forcing a smile. “I be five-star chef for my abete. My food always sweet like jollof.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Just follow the instructions. No experiments. I want it exactly how it’s supposed to be.”
“No wahala, madam,” he said, his smile spreading like spilled oil. “E go be like Korean noodles exactly, trust me.”
As she exited the kitchen, Ayobami’s grin widened. "You go chop lesson today, madam." He said, under his breath.
He got to work with theatrical flair, tossing ingredients around as though he were on a reality cooking show. Into the pot went noodles, water, oil, spring onions, and salt. But then he reached for his wild card — turmeric.
“Aha,” he said, sprinkling it with glee, “small yellow colour go spice your mood.”
Soon, the pot bubbled with a strange greenish-yellow hue. Ayobami stirred with the enthusiasm of a prankster ready to unveil his masterpiece. He served the noodles into a porcelain bowl and carried it to the dining room like a waiter at a fancy restaurant.
Araire looked up, her face already set in suspicion. The moment her eyes landed on the noodles, she recoiled. “What is this?! Why is it... greenish-yellow?!”
Ayobami bowed slightly. “Na noodles, madam. Abi e resemble soup?”
She glared. “You did this on purpose.”
He put on his best innocent face. “No o! Na standard recipe. I even follow packet instructions carefully.”
“What ingredients did you use?” she asked, her voice sharp as a blade.
Ayobami cleared his throat like a poet about to recite Shakespeare's poem.
“First — noodles. Ordinary Indomie.”
“Of course,” she muttered.
“Second — tap water, fresh from our government pipeline.”
Her eyes twitched. “Then?”
“Third — iodized salt, wey dey help person brain sharp.”
She scoffed. “You need it more than I do.”
“Fourth — vegetable oil. Madam, your skin go glow from inside.”
“Spare me the nutrition talk!” She barked.
“Fifth — spring onions. For colour.”
Araire folded her arms.
“Sixth — garlic. For aroma.”
She groaned. “Garlic on indomie? You are a disaster.” She facepalmed in deep frustration.
“And last, seventh ingredient — turmeric. Small colourant to lift the spirit.”
Her eyes bulged. “TURMERIC?! On my noodles?! Are you mad?!”
Ayobami grinned. “No be colour you dey find? This one na natural, madam. E go shock your taste buds.”
Araire slammed the table. “Enough! Get this trash out of my sight!”
She stormed out, hissing and muttering, “My God will judge you, Ayobami! I swear!”
Ayobami waited till her footsteps faded, then burst into laughter. “My God will judge you," He mimicked, "My own God go fold hands go dey look you abi?”
He sat down and took a forkful of his creation — only to spit it out immediately.
“Yeeeh! I don poison myself!” he cried, running to the trash bin. “This thing taste like expired jollof!”
He dumped the bowl with flair and shook his head. “How she go survive with this mouth wey dey reject real food?”
Then he paused. A sound came from the kitchen. Curious, he tiptoed back and peeked.
There was Araire, muttering under her breath and spreading jam on bread like a refugee.
Ayobami held his laugh, turned, and tiptoed away. “From chef’s special to bread and jam — life na transformer!”
He walked back to the gate humming, “Madam no fit boil noodles... but she sabi put jam on bread.”
And the stars above seemed to twinkle a little brighter as two men — one with age, one with mischief — continued their evening watch.
- Writer
