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Before Papa died, our home was always one of order. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be at certain times and didn't wait to be called on before they did their duties. He was a driving force in my life and his principles was what would have effect on me later in the future.
I wouldn't say Papa was wickedly strict. He just knew how to wield his control and authority in such a way that it couldn't be disputed and he couldn't be disobeyed. I was Papa’s best friend because I was the first born and only boy out of five children. It seemed Papa hadn't been satisfied with just me and had wanted one more boy but Mama probably had no boy in her anymore, and after her 4th try, Mama gave up. Papa gave up too. I think he realized that more children meant more expenses and he was just an average earner.
Papa was also a proud man, a very proud one at that. He was probably who the Gen-Zs’ would call an “alpha male”. I remember when I was six. I was quite inquisitive of what went on in the kitchen. I wondered how all the delicious palatable dishes came into existence, so I went to the kitchen one fateful evening. My mum was quite surprised to see me there and she didn't try to hide it.
“Ebuka, what are you doing here?” She had asked.
“Nothing, Mama. I just want to see how you cook food.”
“Hmmmm, okay. Just don't come near the gas and bring whatever I ask you to.”
“Okay, mama.” Mama was cooking vegetables soup. She told me the names of all the ingredients that were being used. The locust beans that was used to give the soup a traditional scent and a scintillating aroma, the stock like dried fish, ponmo(skin of cow) and meat, fresh pepper to give the tongue a sweet scorching feeling when eating the soup. I was entranced by the rinse and repeat my mum was doing on the vegetables, so I hadn't heard my dad come in. Normally, when Dad arrived from work, I was always the first face he saw because I was always the first to greet him. So, I'm sure he was surprised not to see me, so he called my name.
“Ebukaa…” He called.
“Sirr.” I answered while hurrying out of the kitchen, Mama was behind me. When I saw him, I knelt on one knee to greet him, “Good evening, Papa.”
“Good evening, my son.”He replied as he patted my head and drew me close.
“Welcome, my husband. How was work?” My mother greeted too
“It was fine. What are you cooking?”
“Vegetables soup. Ebuka was just helping me in the kitchen.” She smiled at me.
“And you let him?” I could hear the underlying tension in Papa’s voice and knew just then that I had done something wrong.
“Why not? He should learn how to cook? It's important and it's not even bad.”
“What are you telling me, Chinyere?” Papa only called Mama by her given name when he was getting angry. “You are telling me that you let my only son do a woman's work? How is cooking important for him ehn? Tell me.”
“See, my soup will soon burn. Sorry for letting your only son learn an important life skill ohh.” Mama headed back into the kitchen, leaving me in my dad's terse presence.
“Papa, I was the one who went to join Mama in the kitchen. I just wanted to know how to cook small.” I said, trying to save Mama’s face.
“My son, you have to be a strong man. Strong men do not do women's work. They are not seen in the kitchen.
“But Mama said it's important to know how to cook.”
“And that's why you will have a woman in your life. A woman that will do the wifely duties while you take care of her.”
Well, I believed Papa and I never visited the kitchen except when I was hungry or when I wanted to drop my dirty dishes. For my formative years, I never learnt how to cook. Even cooking white rice or cook noodles was a problem for me.
I got to university and that's when it dawned on me that not being able to cook was going to be a huge problem for me. Papa died in my first year at university. His death struck me with a force I couldn't comprehend. My strong prideful Papa was dead. Papa might have had his flaws and archaic view of the world but he was known as a good man. Papa never shirked in what he perceived to be his duties. He paid the bills, provided food and basic necessities for us and we never truly knew lack. I was used to Papa doing the providing, even Mama was. That was why she was comfortable with her small provisions store. So, when he died, the burden sort of fell on me. I had to take on the responsibility of caring for my sisters and contributing to the upkeep of the house. I became a man and a father so fast.
Due to this, I had to start cooking at home, as I didn't have the money to patronize restaurants thrice daily. My first attempt at cooking noodles ended up looking and like mashed beans. I couldn't eat and I slept with an empty stomach. For consecutive nights, I kept sleeping with hunger roiling in my stomach. My attempts to cooking native soups, rice, noodles ended in disaster. The end result of all my dishes always looked like burnt offerings.
I tried finding a lady to fulfill wifely duties to me but it seems I wasn't bound to find love. Besides, it seemed having a girlfriend meant more expenses. I tried watching YouTube videos but it seemed I just always couldn't get anything right.
It wasn't until I made a friend, that I learnt the basics of cooking. Apparently, his mother had ingrained and drilled cooking techniques and recipes into him. His father had encouraged him to learn it, even, saying it would save him in future. It was my friend that eventually taught me all I know in cooking. But first, I learnt the hard way. Papa was clearly wrong in one thing. Cooking was an essential life skill for both male and female. It was not gender specific.
