I was 14 when I first heard the phrase “Rubbish et al.” I had made the world’s soggiest and saltiest jollof rice. It was so bad that my brothers abandoned their plates and ran to their rooms to laugh. My sisters weren’t the most faithful allies either, and my mum, who at the time was convinced that cooking wasn’t my thing, started begging God on behalf of my future husband, “God, Abeg, is this how this girl will disgrace me in her husband’s house?”
Times were hard; 2 derica of rice was our typical rice measurement for the entire family. I had just ruined what was supposed to be a blissful dinner and left the entire house with two choices: Eat my rubbish or drink water and starve.
My brothers chose the former, even though it wasn’t an easy choice. They swallowed each spoonful and washed it down with humor. They cackled like crazy hyenas, and I sat with them, laughing too, using their humor as balm for my throat that was painfully swollen with tears.
Occasionally they would say, “Every time Mum calls you to the kitchen, you sit down there complaining. Now you’ve cooked rubbish! You should have let Mercy do it. Look at the rubbish you’ve cooked now.” I took these comments with a pinch of salt, not offended, just ashamed because they spoke only the truth. I wasn’t the best 14-year-old. I left all my tasks to my cousin Mercy. Mercy was the exact opposite of me: a workaholic and a Mommy-pleaser. I, on the other hand, was a lazy, stubborn Daddy’s girl who had no intention of pleasing my mum. The two derica of rice had a better chance of becoming a very pleasant meal with Mercy.
When the comments became unbearable, I started to cry uncontrollably. I genuinely wanted to cook that day because my daddy had suggested it, and I had boasted that I’d make the best Jollof rice he had ever tasted. My daddy, who had given me my first lessons on jollof rice, was expectant, and I hated to disappoint him.
I started to think about how terrible I was at cooking. I promised never to try again. Clearly, this wasn’t for me. I was so anxious that the moment my Dad walked in the door, I burst into tears, confessing my disappointment in myself and trying to garner some pity from him.
My Daddy knew my antics too well. The moment he entered the living room, he walked straight to his favorite chair — a brown 3-seater couch that had seen better days, unbuckled his belt, and pulled the coffee table towards him. Then he looked at me, acknowledging my tears for the first time. He had a tiny smile on his face as he asked, “Bombom, what is the matter?”
I opened my mouth to explain, shooting words at him with a mouth full of tears. As a professional Daddy’s girl, this is how I cried. He waited for the tears to subside, then said, “Bombom, you are a great cook. You just need more practice. Please go and bring my food.” His tone was stern but laced with love. There was no need to argue. I turned and marched straight to the kitchen, heaped his plate with melted jollof rice, then I served him and watched him eat.
He took 1 scoop, 2 scoops, 3 scoops — he kept scooping the rice and swallowing it with a loyal urgency, as if he was afraid he would stop and throw up. Finally, when he took the final scoop and cleared his plate, he looked up at me and said, “Bombom the Bomboms, I love you, but this is rubbish et al.”
We held our gazes for a second and burst into uncontrollable laughter. We laughed until our bellies hurt. Then my Daddy pulled me into a warm embrace and said, “You will get better. Just keep trying.”
I kept trying.
These days when I watch people eat my food, I love to see the expression as the food hits their tongue. The sweet shock that’s usually accompanied by a moan and a thousand praises. I remember my Daddy and his kind words to me, encouraging me to keep trying.
Dear reader, let me leave you with the same words: You are not bad or terrible at your job, life, or relationships. You are great for trying, and you should keep going.
