I stood by the roadside, waiting for when there would be a halt in traffic for me to cross the highway. The vehicles kept passing at top speed. I made a few attempts whenever the next car approaching was a few meters away. I would change my mind and stay back with the fear that I couldn't beat the speed of the approaching vehicle.
Relief came my way when a motorcycle stopped by my side and asked where I was going.
"Legacy Private school junction," I responded.
He told me the fare, and I hurriedly climbed, and off we went to the junction.
My sister was eagerly waiting to welcome me. She called me every now and then from my time of departure in the village until I climbed the motorcycle that was taking me to the legacy junction, behind which her house was located.
It was my first time in Abuja, the capital city of Nigeria. Coming from a village setting where one could have a short nap before the next vehicle passed on the road, the traffic level in Abuja was strange to me.
I met my sister standing at the junction in anticipation of my arrival.
"Welcome to Abuja. How was your journey? I hope it wasn't stressful."
"The journey was awesome, though the long hours of seating a little a little aches by the waist," I responded to her. "I spent almost an hour waiting for traffic to halt so that I could cross the highway, but it never did. Cars were moving at high speed as if they were being pursued."
"That's Abuja for you," my sister giggled.
She ushered me in and didn't waste time setting the table for me.
"Take your shower and have this fruit before I get done with what I am doing in the kitchen," she instructed.
I went to have my shower immediately before settling down in the dining room to take the fruit.
"What is this like, a melon?" I asked myself as I assessed what was on the plate.
The melon that I knew wasn't an edible fruit. It is the type in which the seeds are separated and dried for the preparation of soup. Egusi is the local name of the soup. The reddish nature of the one in front of me cleared my doubt that it wasn't the melon that I knew.
I finally cut a small portion to have a taste. I spit it out as soon as it got into my mouth. My sister walked in to meet my squeezed face.
"What happened? Don't you like it?" She asked me.
"What is this?"
"Watermelon," she responded to me.
"How do you eat this tasteless fruit?"
My sister couldn't hold back her laughter. Abdul, her son, laughed too. "It could be that it's because you are eating it for the first time. Don't worry; with time, you will like it."
In another few minutes, she served me rice and stew with fish. I ate to satisfaction before having a long chat with my sister about life in the village.
The following morning, she woke up early to prepare breakfast because she was traveling to another city to buy commodities that she sells in her shop.
"I will be dropping Abdul off at school this morning before traveling to Kano. Once it is 1 p.m., prepare noodles for him. He will be returning home by 1:30 p.m."
I went into the kitchen at exactly 1 p.m. to prepare the noodles. I picked up two sachets as instructed by my sister.
"This must be a new version of spaghetti," I told myself after tearing the wrap to see the content. "The cooking process must be the same with spaghetti," I concluded.
I fried onions, tomatoes, and other ingredients for a few minutes before adding water, seasoning cubes, and other ingredients. I nodded my head in approval of the taste when I tasted the solution before adding the noodles. I emptied the two sachets of noodles into the fried tomatoes and added more water. I went and relaxed in the living room. I planned to check back 20 minutes later.
When I went to check, I noticed that the appearance of what I was preparing was different from how spaghetti appears when cooked. The noodles had dissolved into something I didn't understand. I dropped the food from the fire and served myself.
When I placed the first spoon in my mouth, it was obvious that many things were wrong. Too much salt. Too much seasoning. In fact, everything added was in excess. I ate a small quantity.
Abdul came back from school, and I served him. He couldn't swallow the first spoon he put in his mouth.
"What is this, uncle?" He asked me as he walked to the kitchen to rinse his mouth.
"It's noddles," I responded.
"Noodles? This type of noddle is strange. I don't like it."
I went to the kitchen and met part of the bread that was being taken for breakfast. Abdul prepared tea and ate the bread with it.
A few hours later, my sister returned from her journey. I didn't wait for her to ask me how my day went before narrating to her how I cooked noodles that turned out to be something else.
"Noodles is not spaghetti," she laughed, tears rolling out of her eyes. "The seasoning that comes with it is enough to prepare it. It doesn't spend half the time that spaghetti spends on the fire before getting done."
While my sister saw it as funny, I was unhappy and felt like a fish out of water.
"I will take my time to acclimatize to this city life before making any future moves to eat or prepare anything for the first time," I told her.
Years later, I blended with city life. I got used to the high traffic of vehicles and started finding my way around the city like every other dweller in the city does. Watermelon became my best fruit, and, of course, cooking noodles became as easy as breathing in oxygen.
