Serving Suggestions (cont’d)

“Listen, Awo, I can explain.”

She looked up through the fog of her anger and pride, and realized the once rugged lines of her husband’s face had blurred since she had stopped seeing him, so focused was she on enhancing herself.

“Listen to what, Elorm? I can’t believe you. Did you forget? Have we not been planning this anniversary celebration for the past two weeks?”

“I said I could explain.”  That familiar knife-like sharpness had found its way into his voice the way it did every time Awo tried to confront him with her temper and her incessant demands.

“Go ahead and explain then, I’d love to hear how I’m over-reacting and how there is a perfectly logical reason for why my feelings are not valid. Go on! I know what this is about. It’s not my fault I don’t make you feel like a ‘real man,’ that your male ego can’t take you being ‘Mr. Awo’-”

“I’m fed up of having these arguments with you. It’s like if I don’t act exactly the way you want, with everything according to your specifications, then you have one of these tantrums. And then come your excuses, and your promises- and I know we’re supposed to lean on each other but I’m tired Awo, and-“

His eyes narrowed. “Wait, what did you just say? Mr Awo? Do you really think this is what it’s about? If anyone here has an ego it’s you, my dear wife. You manipulate me with your tears, and you think you can back-pedal and blame our problems on me being a typical African man, on me being unavailable, too logical, on all manner of things! After the miscarriage, you said you didn’t want to try again because you couldn’t afford to give up on your career, and I supported you. I have always been your biggest fan. I would do anything for you, but it never seems like enough. Enough! It’s time you took responsibility for our problems and not just our triumphs.”

“You know what?” he added bitterly. “Don’t bother, I’m fed up of your hard-fragi, Jekyll and Hyde act. Keep your emotions and your selfishness too.” He turned towards the door.

She was so stunned by this monologue that all she could do was watch his retreating back, already missing the broad shoulders that had held her up like that brick wall to the cross, after long days in the kitchens, at times when it had seemed like her own spine had been turned into jelly. His harsh words hung in the space right above her head, like smoke refusing to disperse after a pot had been left too long on the fire.

“Elorm wait! Wait, please I didn’t mean to…”

He turned back with a look that belonged to a total stranger. He reached into his pocket and retrieved an envelope which he slid across the countertop. “I wish you had just listened. This time I really did have an explanation.”

He was gone. Awo continued to sit just like her mother had done years before. Her meal, ice-cold and long-forgotten, also sat before her, silently taunting her. Who said she was above mediocrity? She had failed. Once open, the envelope revealed just how her pride and her desire to control had helped to unravel her marriage. Two tickets for a luxury getaway to Thailand. She had been dying to visit and dropped hints at every opportunity. She got up and picked up her car keys and her white chef’s jacket. She attached the gold pin to her chest and smoothed it down. It declared in embossed capital letters, “Awo Ayi, Head Chef”. A long shift at the hotel awaited her.

 

Serving Suggestions

For the 4 and a half people who have been waiting for me to post new work, I apologize. I’ve actually been writing  but haven’t been too happy with the results which explains my disappearance for the past month. But I’m back 🙂 and I hope you enjoy! 

She sat staring at the plate of food in front of her. Only half an hour ago steam had risen from it with its characteristic slowness, seductively daring the diner to resist. Now, it was no more than a congealed mass of over-cooked tomato paste sitting next to sticky rice. She almost let out a laugh when she thought about how much she had in common with this rejected meal, a mere substitute, left to simmer too long only to grow cold waiting to be consumed, better yet, devoured by a certain someone’s hunger. Awo had this curious habit of thinking of life in terms of food metaphors, creating analogies that were sometimes humorous but mostly inappropriate for the gravity of the current situation. Perhaps it was one of the many symptoms of her job as the head chef of one of the most prestigious hotels in Accra. With every day she spent controlling her staff with her infamous bellow; “Is that clear?” and sending out sumptuous meals with finesse, she felt as though she was laughing in the faces of all those who had slapped their knees and doubled over with laughter, mocking her career choices.

“You? A woman as a head chef? How? It’s not possible, we all know men make the best chefs!”

“But I thought a woman’s place was in the kitchen? How ironic, that cooking is the domain of the lady of the house until it becomes a high-paying job with all the perks, only then does it become a legitimate activity and not a wifely duty…”

“My friend please spare us your feminist nonsense! Your parents sent you abroad to go and read aaah you came back to cook for the same big men who run the system you want to insult…”

Awo looked down at her dismal lunch and wondered what an award-winning chef was doing eating like a college student. The exquisite steak she had prepared some hours earlier, lovingly rubbing the meat with spices and tending to it so it would emerge from the oven just the way he liked it (“No blood oozing out like your posh hotel guests please I like my meat well cooked!”) was stewing in the bin, still releasing it’s aroma into the air. Ever since she had watched her perfect mother lay out impeccable meals night after night, hands folded primly in her starched lap waiting for her father, meals at which he rarely deigned to show his face, she vowed to herself never to let a man dictate her actions in that way. Never to descend into the murky abyss of depression covered up by family’s hushed reassurances,

“Sister Monica is just tired, not crazy! Imagine looking after all these children and a husband, in that big house! Hmm in fact she is trying…”

Never to wait for anything. Never to curb the force of the tidal wave that was her ambition, breaking gently instead at the feet of her lord and master, washing them carefully and dutifully. Never to put her goals on the back-burner in order to complement another and allow him to bask in the glory and praise of those around while she sank deeper and deeper into oblivion. Always a palette-teaser and never the main meal.

She smiled to herself; surely this was a problem. Thinking of food at time like this, when the draughts of separation and misunderstanding were ripping through her carefully constructed marital home. She did not even afford herself the leeway of wondering what she had done to deserve this, or how she had arrived at this point. That was for weak people who did not want to claim their share in their own unhappiness, choosing instead to point fingers at “circumstance”. Awo, the booklong, had achieved the enviable feat of embodying the modern Ghanaian woman trifecta, educated and beautiful with an unmatched recipe for jollof rice. She had never given anyone the chance to raise her virtues above their underserving head as a trophy, an offering to failed manhood and family expectations. She had been notorious among the male population of her secondary school for being rude and unwilling to accept their romantic advances, a fact which branded her automatically as frigid and strange.

“See am oh! Notin give am saf!”

She wore her supposed strangeness like a badge of honor, debating with teachers while others kept silent and buried herself in books; encyclopedias, outdated chemistry textbooks, cookbooks, which probably explains why no one was surprised when she announced that she was abandoning her chemical engineering degree to take a job as a chef in a French restaurant. Nor were they surprised when she rose through the ranks of the best restaurants in town, eventually assuming the head chef position at the Regal Palm Hotel, making her the youngest and only female to do so. No one expected anything less from her, and the rumors swirling about her painting her as a snobbish shrew settled after her marriage to a certain executive at one of Accra’s leading advertising firms.

“Hmm maybe she was expecting ooh…no wonder they did it so quickly!”

“Yes ooh and I heard no traditional marriage too! Not even a single bottle of Schnapps!”

Awo remembered this same day ten years ago, or maybe it had been ten lifetimes, and how little she had cared about all the wisps of gossip floating about town, only just eluding her ears. They had been ecstatic. Their modest ceremony had been conducted beneath a stoic cross held up by aged brick, the same eternal symbol that had borne witness to both their baptisms. The reception was a never-ending blur of envelopes of money and suffocating hugs in the ample bosoms of old aunts. They were so eager for it to come to an end so they could be alone. Their craving for one another set the tone for their marriage, and their first few years were spent in this suspended state of wanting but never having their fill. One could argue that this was not the healthiest foundation for a long-lasting union; after all, a candle burns brightly for a brief moment before melting down to an unrecognizable version of its former self.

And today, she sat in her spotless kitchen, an unfortunate replica of the mother she resented and whose fate she had tried desperately to avoid. She believed that she was nothing like that wan shadow of a woman who smiled emptily at her emotionally abusive husband, receiving his subliminal blows while keeping his house pristine. She did not belong to that army of women kitted out with vapid facial expressions and a baby on the hip who she had always looked upon with disgust. As far as she was concerned, they were to blame for all their marital woes as they lacked the guts to leave, settling instead for a life of bakery and mediocrity. She knew she deserved so much better than that. How dare this man reduce her to the ranks of such weaklings? And yet…true love doesn’t keep a record of wrongs, it endures every circumstance. And yet…wasn’t humility one of the fruits of the spirit? Several Bible verses flashed through her mind, but it had been years since she left Sunday school and they were no longer as clear as they had once been. And yet…she was alone on her wedding anniversary, with a home-cooked meal which would soon begin to rot in the garbage just like her disintegrating self-esteem.

Then, the unmistakable clink” of keys on the kitchen counter, and a familiar shadow darkened her outlook.

(to be continued)

-Special acknowledgement goes to my dear friend Aba Quagrainie for the pidgin consultation. 🙂 

The Girl with Horizontal Dreams

So the girl with horizontal dreams sat on a cold kitchen stool, looking out of the window at the wide expanse of  lively flora and fauna that seemed to mock her with its vivacity. She sat there, one missed call away from depression, one chipped fragment of her soul away from death. This is what it feels like to be happily married. She looked down at the white gold band around her frail left finger and felt nothing. Not even nostalgia, not longing, not the teary-eyed happiness she felt on her wedding day looking up at the stoic cross hanging on the brick wall behind the altar as if to say, “I am with you.”

She sighed and rose wearily, studiously avoiding the taunting ticking of the clock as it betrayed her daily fear, 10:15pm and he’s still not home.  This was a dangerous place to be in, this deep sense of failure and giving up for which apathy was too light of a descriptive word.  She ran her fingers over her dry messy bun, tendrils of hair sticking out in the back, and marveled in disbelief at the time when she dreamt to be his wife, two become one, until death do us part, Amen. She wandered through the comfortable desolation that was her family home, echoing with the footfalls of many a long-gone toddler. Her heart had ceased to bleed long ago. She had forced it to, for fear of her husband’s dismissal that only served to increase the pain rather than to alleviate it.

She had an endless inventory of things she could no longer say, what was the point? He would be back soon, take a quick cursory glance at her distressed face marked with valley-deep channels of her endless tears, and all he would do was shrug.  “If you don’t want to talk about it I’m not going to ask”.  She looked down at her dwindling frame and suddenly felt cold even in the perpetual 33-degree Ghanaian heat. How does infatuation, and passion, and lust and obsession, morph into flippant neglect, and uneasy comfort, and torturous nonchalance?

She had dreams, and although he never categorically forbade her from following them, she felt she had to stunt their trajectory, what was the point if she had neither his disapproval nor his praise? She used to yearn for everything that was him; a discarded handkerchief, a late night phone call, a smile; and so it didn’t matter that she let her ambitions cool on the countertop like a stale apple pie. Thinking back, she couldn’t even remember why she turned down that summer at the writing institute to spend time with him. He wouldn’t have said no, he didn’t even have the right to, but she thought he was worthy and so she gave him a full pass to her heart, her mind, her free will, her future.

And so her astronomical dreams were put to rest. Her life stretched out in front of her in an endless sea of company functions, and traditional weddings and lonely nights in the cold tundra of their four- poster bed. Her dreams for their life together died a thousand deaths at the first shrug of his shoulders. She slid into the icy bed sheets. 3:15am, he’s still not home.