Clueless Love

I finish helping Ismail. I pray Asr (mid-afternoon) prayer before I go downstairs to make something to eat.

I feel like preparing one of my Nigerian dishes today, but I wonder which I should make. ‘Aha, I know just what to prepare’.

I go to the kitchen. The kitchen walls are painted all white. There is a chandelier in the middle, the cupboards are painted white with brushed steel handles, the gas cooker and the microwave are brushed steel, and the worktop is ceramic with a black and white pattern.

I start preparing dinner which is pounded yam and egusi soup with chicken. But if I eat it and go to bed early, my stomach will hurt the next morning, but Alhamdulillah (Praise be to Allah) it’s 3:00 p. m. I am lucky I got off work early today. There is enough time for the food to digest before I go to bed.

Two hours later I finish making my egusi soup and pounded yam. I am about to dish up my food when I hear someone’s voice coming from the living room, walking to the kitchen.

“Hmm, what’s cooking? I am so hungry I can’t wait to eat,” Ismail says walking into the kitchen.

“Listen to you! Who said I made enough for you too? If you want to eat, cook for yourself!” I say, speaking with my Nigerian exclamations.

“Eww, what is that you are cooking,” he says, taking a step back away from my food.

“What did you say?” I say raising my brows, looking at him with a look that says, ‘try and repeat what you said, and you will see what will happen to you.’

“I did not say anything, but please, what is that you made. I have never seen it before,” he says, moving a step away from me.

“It’s called pounded yam and egusi soup.”

“What is e-eg-gusi, and where did you pound the yam.”

“You are not serious! Just because I called it pounded yam does not mean the yam must be pounded,” I say laughing at him.

“Will you stop laughing. You are laughing at me like I am a Nigerian and I am meant to know all about the way you guys make your meals,” he says frowning at me while I laugh at him.

“Sorry Mister, but since you don’t know, I did not pound the yams. I made it with yam flour,” I say still giggling a little.

“Oh, you could have just said that instead of laughing at me.”

“Whatever, do you want to try some? And even though you are not my favorite person in the world, I will never poison you,” I say tasting my food to prove to him it’s not poisoned. Before he can reply, Aazim walks in.

“Aha Umit, you made pounded yam and egusi soup today,” Aazim says smiling.

“Yes, I did. Yours is on the dinner table.” I say, turning back to Ismail waiting for his answer.

“Aazim, you eat this thing she cooked,” he says, giving my food a disgusted look.

Does this guy want me to beat him? If he gives my cooking that look one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I? I am sure you must be wondering why I will eat something I have never eaten before or ever seen in my life. I will tell you, when she first made the dish, I didn’t even want to look at it. But when I heard my son say that it was his favorite Nigerian food, I knew this dish must be amazing. Because Aayan is very selective when it comes to food and for him to like it, I just knew that I had to try it. So, one day when she made it, I tried it, and let me tell you something brother, it was amazing,” Aazim says praising my cooking, which makes me smile and forget I was about to knock some sense into someone.

“Wow,” he says looking at his brother like he has two heads.

“You should try it too,” Aazim says to Ismail.All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

“No, thank you, I will pass,” Ismail says, walking out of the kitchen.

After dinner, I went back upstairs to do Eman’s hair before finishing some work I had to do. I also prayed Isha (night) prayer after I finished working. I am on my way to the kitchen to get a bottle of water to drink when I hear noises coming from the kitchen. ‘I wonder who is in the kitchen at this time of the night’ I ask myself.

I walk into the kitchen to see the last person I want to see, doing the last thing I expected that person would do. Ismail is eating the last plate of dinner I made, and he is enjoying it so much that he doesn’t notice when I start taking pictures of him until I started laughing.

“What are you laughing at?” he asks, dropping the plate in the sink like I did not just catch him eating the meal I made.

“Oh me, nothing serious, just this funny picture I saw online,” I say flashing my phone in his face.

“When did you take that?” he says trying to grab my phone from my hand.

“I took it when you were busy eating the food like your life depended on it,” I reply laughing at him again.

“You have to delete it,” he says trying to grab my phone again.

“No,” I say locking my phone so even if he gets it, he won’t be able to open it, while I run to the edge of the counter in the middle of the kitchen. We run around the kitchen like little children until we both get tired and decide to stop.

“Fine, I give up. What do you want me to do so you can delete the picture?” Ismail asks breathing heavily, probably tired from running around the kitchen island.

“Hmm, you will have to be my slave for a whole month.”

“Your what?” he says with disbelieve.

“My slave,” I say smiling, knowing I have already won this battle.

“You have to be kidding me. Pick something else, anything but that.”

“You either be my slave for a month or everyone on my snap chat, Instagram and other social media accounts will have a copy of your glorious picture,” I laugh.

“Fine. Fine, I will do it. But don’t make me do things that are not reasonable.”

“I can’t promise you that,” I say smiling.

“I am serious, Umit.”

“I have heard you and I say goodnight. Also, after you have finished eating, do remember to wash the plates. So, no-one will know you ate my cooking,” I say smirking while walking up the stairs making sure to be loud.

“Will you keep it down!”

“Sorry, sir.” I say in a whisper before disappearing upstairs.