I was getting hungry every two hours, and I didn't know why. As I walked down the tarred road to buy milk, I wondered why I suddenly felt like I was eating for the universe the moment I arrived in Port Harcourt. Milk was not good for me. I was lactose intolerant, and I knew it, but I had been craving milk all through that day, and I didn't care if what I was about to do was suicidal. People hurdled past me like sardines. Now and then, a car passed by too. It was an estate, yet the road seemed crowded because of the numerous stalls lined up on both sides of the road leading to the estate gate. I could feel my scalp cringe from the heat of the sun. Why was Port Harcourt so hot? I thought, wiping my greasy forehead with the back of my palm.
Just then, my eyes caught a woman hawking Abacha, it was a cassava dish eaten majorly by the Igbo tribe. I quickly called out to her, “Aunty how much?” I yelled.
She said, “Seven hundred naira with fried fish.”
I said, “Okay, put it in a takeaway plate for me, please.”
She stooped down and brought down the large rubber container she had on her head, then began to scoop the cassava dish into a rubber plate. When she was done, she wrapped it in a polythene bag and stretched it out to me. I moved closer and took the bag, then paid her and walked straight to a grocery store to buy milk. I was going to eat the Abacha first, then later I would take the milk with garri, groundnut, and sugar, then beans with plantain later in the evening. My meal for the day was planned out. I felt accomplished.
So I went home and ate the abacha as planned. About three hours later my sister came back and met me at the dining table, eating the milk with garri. She looked at me and asked, “What are you eating?” As if to say “How many things have you put into that tummy of yours today?”.
I looked at her and responded, “I ate Abacha in the morning”.
“Morning, what time?”
“About three hours ago.”
She laughed and said, “You see that milk you are taking when it starts, don't call me.” With that, she walked away to her room. My little niece was standing behind her, the girl stood there staring at me. I looked at her and made a face. “Go inside!” I ordered with a hushed tone. She giggled and ran after my sister. I could hear her voice inside the room, “Aunty, shebi Aunty Mmeyene will have a running stomach as she did before, right?” She said mixing pidgin with English. I winced. That girl didn't wish me well at all, I thought, rolling my eyes.
Later that evening, I ate the final meal, beans and plantain. My niece sat across the dining table eating rice krispies and observing me. I knew she was watching to see if I was okay. I eyed her with a frown on my face to show I was pissed, even though I wasn’t. She kept staring and began to giggle.
About four hours later, I noticed the food in my tummy wasn't digesting. Everyone had gone to bed by then, so I stood up from my bed and went to the kitchen to drink water. I was struggling to catch my breath. “You've shot yourself in the leg again”, I said to myself as I pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge. The fact that I loved milk so much but couldn't have it was my greatest dilemma.
My sister came into the kitchen and stood at the door. “What is wrong with you?” She asked, observing my face.
“I think I'm having indigestion,” I replied.
She looked at me and shook her head, “I warned you about eating that milk, didn't I?
“I'll try and sleep,” I said. “I should feel better in the morning.”
But I didn't feel better by morning. By the next day, I couldn't eat. And before evening came, I was stooling and vomiting.
“You look like some melted pumpkin leaf”, my sister said in our dialect when she came into my room to see me.
I laughed, “It's my love-hate relationship with milk that has caused it.” I replied.
“Well, it's a wake-up call for you to start taking your health seriously. Just because you like something doesn't mean you should eat it.”
“Well,” I replied with a shrug. I was seated on my bed with my back leaning against a pillow my sister had propped up for me. I smiled and thought about spending the rest of my life without milk, how possible? I questioned.
“How do you feel?” She asked.
“Nauseous.”
“How many times have you gone to the toilet?”
“Four times, I feel very weak.”
She looked at me pitifully. Then I felt a little hand wrap itself around me from the side, I looked up and saw it was my niece. “Aunty sorry,” she said, placing her chin on my shoulder. I nodded. “Thank you,” I barely muttered.
“Let me go to the pharmacy and get some medications for you; I'll be back,” my sister said and turned on her heels. Inside my head, there was a big hammer constantly coming down at my brain. In my guts, I could feel all the contents of my stomach trying to wrench themselves out of my mouth. I pressed a pillow to my face. I did look like some dead pumpkin leaf, just as my sister had said. My eyes were sunken when I looked in the mirror, and every time I touched my collarbone, it felt like they had suddenly grown bigger in one day. I shut my eyes tight and kept the pillow on my face.
My sister came back a few minutes later with some medications, but the diarrhea didn't stop after I took them. So the next morning, she called her doctor, and he prescribed more medications. They worked. Slowly, the frequent visits to the toilet decreased and my stomach contents relaxed. I waited until everyone had gone out, then I stood up, found my way to the kitchen, and pulled out the remaining pack of milk I had left there. Never again, I thought to myself. Never again. And into the trash can, it went. But my love for milk never left.
Picture is mine.
Mmeyene Joseph
