[STORY] TRAPPED IN THE MIDDLE (Episode 09)

TRAPPED IN THE MIDDLE by Moshood Avidiime

Episode 09.

I woke up the next morning to a palatable aroma of my favorite food hitting me from left to right. It smelled so good, only Mama could have been capable of this.

With groggy eyes, I scanned the bed and everywhere in the room for Tricia.

She was nowhere to be found.

I dragged myself out of bed, then made my way into the bathroom.

By the time I got out of the bathroom, sleep had disappeared from my eyes.

The aroma of “what’s cooking” was hitting me from all angles, my mouth had began to water. I could taste every seasoning in a meal I was only already imagining.

I moon walked to the front of the giant mirror hanging from my wall and flexed a dance step or two, with excitement, anticipation and high expectations.

Just like a child on Christmas’s eve, after haven envisaged how good he’ll look in his newly bought Christmas clothes, my heart gladdened with joy.

I hurriedly got into a T-shirt and a short, then scrambled my way out of the bedroom, into the kitchen.
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I guessed as much.

Standing just a couple of steps away from me, in the kitchen, was Mama. Mama was busy doing “her thing” the way only SHE, knew how to.

Mama was cooking with style.

Strapped to her ears, was the giant headphone I’d bought for her the last time I’d gone visiting. Mama had seen this headphone in a movie and had begged I got her one of those.

I was surprised to see that Mama was only moving her head in possible rhythm, while dancing to the song that was obviously blasting in her ears, instead of her usual unconscious urge to sing along, to since aloud, thereby constituting nuisance.

The sight of “these”, brought back memories. Memories that brought a tear to my eyes.
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I crept in on Mama, holding her in a tight hug from behind.

With how jittery this had made Mama, it was obvious she certainly wasn’t expecting company.

“Good morning my darling. I trust you slept well?” Mama asked, with a smile, in a pitch rather louder than normal, as she made to rinse her hands and then proceeded to take off the headphone.

Before I could even form the words to respond to Mama’s greeting, she continued…”Do i even have to ask?” Giving me the naughty boy look.

This somehow made me a little uncomfortable.

“It was fine thank you ma. How was yours?” I asked, as I walked towards Mama’s pot to take peek. I didn’t need to open the pot, its led was transparent.

My attempt to open Mama’s pot and probably scoop some soup landed me a playful slap.
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My favorite food being prepared by my favorite “human being” isn’t one I can pass-on, anyday, regardless.

This is certainly not a meal everyone who knows it, can serve me and I’ll be moved to eat.

It’s a food I can eat all day, everyday, for the rest of my life (if possible).

Its not a food best eaten cold or warmed.

This food is always best served as its coming down from the fire. So I couldn’t have had Mama make it at “hers” and probably sent it over.

It’ll still be nice though but not as much.
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This was the first time I’d be eating this food in a very long time.

Over the years, Tricia had tried to prepare this delicacy for me a couple of times but something was always missing. It was either she’d modernized the recipe and as such, it turned out entirely different from what I’d ordered for, or it just didn’t measure up.

I was always considerate not to express my displeasure.

I always showed appreciation for Tricia’s efforts.

I would have thought Tricia to cook it the way I liked, only if I could, too (the exact way Mama makes it).
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Food got ready, food got served, there was no better way to have started a day than with this plate in hand.

Mama’s food tasted even better than its aroma had hinted.

I sat, just from across Mama on the dinning table as I relished her food with appreciation and goosebumps forming all over my body because of how undescribably delicious it was.

It was after I’d stretched my plate, begging Mama for another ration that I realized I still haven’t seen my wife all morning long.

To be continued… . . .

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