Mary Mary Not Quite Contrary

Her name is Mary, but I call her Aunty Mary. She was born and raised in Calabar town. A jolly lady who loves to chew my ears off talking, and boy does she talk. She's always got a good story to tell - not gossip - but just gist, about food, her life, her dreams, her fears and so on.

Afang leaves sliced by her

The other thing that Mary loves to do is cook. She excitedly tells me about the different ingredients she uses to cook indigenous soups, and her own method of cooking.

I can't even remember the name of the fish

She always looks so content in the kitchen, surrounded by vegetables, and dried fish of all shapes and sizes, local spices, and the rest of the ingredients. She also derives pleasure from getting the best quality of ingredients that money can buy, and she does drive a hard bargain at the market.

I wish I could set her up nicely, so she could take her cooking to the next level, but that is not possible now. Yet, she'll be happy to render her cooking services to busy professionals, stay-at-home moms, and anyone interested in  letting their food get cooked by other hands, to be stored away in the freezer - talk about home-cooked microwave meals.

Mary is a single parent. She has a seven-year old son whom she lives for. While she was forced to stop school when she was in JSS3, she has vowed to give her son a solid education. She intends to further her studies at some point in time, but right now, it's all about her son.


If you're interested in hiring her services, you can reach her on 0818-198-3822, or via email at:maryrobertcooks@gmail.com

Mountain Climbing

As you face today, as you face the week, remember that before you get to the top of the mountain, you must pass the valley. (Even if you were going to use a chopper or plane to get to the top, it would still have to take off from the valley or bottom).

The top is yours for the taking if you do all you need to do to prepare yourself for the climb, and ain't no shame in asking for a little help along the way.

Have a SUCCESSFUL week!

One Strand Of Grey

Most times, a lot of us are prepared for puberty. We get the lectures from the time we are seven or eight years old. So it doesn't come as a surprise when things start to happen.

But I am not too sure if we were lectured about the aging process...probably because it's something that we are old enough to understand by the the time it starts happening. 

I remember plucking white hairs off my father's head or pulling out long white strands from my mother's.

However none of those experiences prepared me for the moment I saw my first grey hair. YIKES!!! It's happening to me too? Ok, so I freaked out a little. I wasn't too thrilled at the discovery. My imagination went into a little hyper drive envisioning wrinkles, sagging skin and tired muscles along with toothless gums...but that is still a long way off, God giving me the grace.

So I put out my question to you.

What was your first reaction when you saw your first grey hair?

What I Did To My Daughter's Teacher

There I was, eyes blazing red, fire coming out from my nostrils, my dreads standing with steam rising out of my head.  I had just plastered my daughter's teacher to the blackboard and was ready to make her the last lesson for the day...but alas, this was to be only in the alternative world that existed in my mind.

My daughter is in primary one, fresh out of nursery and right into primary.

School had closed almost an hour ago, but my daughter and husband were not yet home, and considering the fact that school was just a five-minute walk away from our house, I wondered what could be keeping them.

The husband comes back and explains that he had to wait with our daughter and assist her as she copied her homework from the blackboard, because between keeping up with what was written on the board and what she was writing in her book, she kept losing track.

And what does the class teacher have to say to all this? That primary one is intense, and that my daughter doesn't know how to copy from the blackboard, and that all the other children had finished and gone home. LIKE SERIOUSLY??? and you're supposed to be a teacher??????

So the husband's coolness prevails over me. (Sometimes the man is just too cool, but I respect him for it). He patiently explained to our daughter, took her through how to write from the blackboard. The lass was already feeling bad that she was the only one in class. Dad told her she wasn't the only one because there were other children in other classes facing the same dilemma of copying from the blackboard.

The next day was pretty much the same routine, but she was a little faster...she was getting the hang of it. By the third day, the teacher said she was one of the first to finish copying. MSCHEW!

Now, while we have the option to request for a change of class to a more patient, and understanding teacher perhaps, or take it up with the current teacher and let her know that all children are different and it is her job and duty to take note of that and try to help each child as much as she can, we have decided not to.

Reasoning it out, we figured that there will be many more people like my daughter's present teacher along the way, some will be classmates, random people, but people will always say things to her to bring her down, compare her with others, and what will she do then, run crying to us, always complain?

Nah, she will be confident in herself, fearless, independent, assertive, but not rude,not a crowd pleaser. We will encourage her interests academic and non-academic.

I don't need a straight-As child, I need a child who will be happy, well-balanced and not afraid to take on the world and make a positive impact.

Personally, I feel that there is undue pressure on these children who are fresh out of nursery school to primary school. The transition is too rapid and the shock to the kids is a bit too unnerving.

I don't know if it was the same for all schools, but back in the 80s, there was a class called TRANSITION, and it was in-between Nursery 2 and Primary 1. Was it just my primary school that employed that technique, or was it something that was phased out?

I also remember that the teachers would draw lines on the blackboard and write on them, as opposed to writing freely. It made it easier for us to follow and copy.

I would like to hear from other parents on the solutions they have taken when they are faced with ill-tempered, nasty, impatient teachers, who do nothing but speak negativity into your kids lives. Yes, we may make our complaints, even have the teacher fired or removed from that class, but the truth is that our children will meet people like this at different stages of their lives.

So what do you do about it?

Behold, A Cook Is Born.

Written by
Syreeta E. Akinyede

Charcolit Jollof rice. Obviously I have graduated (image:Sybil)

I don't know if I was mentally prepared by the time I started, but ideally I was supposed to have my mother with me in the kitchen on my first day, but I couldn't,

Films That Don't Allow You Eat

Written by: Syreeta E. Akinyede

Smeagol (image: http://stephengallagher.co.nz)

There I was eating a wonderful plate of rice, and then scenes with Smeagol from the film The Hobbit: An unexpected journey surfaced in my head, and all of a sudden, I just couldn't get another spoonful past my lips. I tried and tried, but it was as if I had bile in my mouth - not that I could taste bile, but I just didn't want to taste anything.

I can't remember any other film that has made me feel this way.

So please share, which films have you found not good for mealtimes? :)

From Whence My Ogi Cometh

Written by: Syreeta E. Akinyede

In the midst of the quiet early morning buzz as Surulere comes to life, I hear her voice, loud - but not annoyingly loud - and distinct. It is a voice you cannot ignore. The first few mornings when I hear it, I can't make out what she was saying, but after a few days, I notice that she has a pattern and she rarely deviates from it. 

Soon enough, her arrival becomes a means for me to tell the time, and much later, hearing her voice would mean I have less than 20 minutes to trade in my nightwear for some decent clothes and dash out to purchase my weekly ration of Ogi. Yes, Ogi, or what some of us would call pap, or to be scientifically specific, the result of fermented corn, which has been ground and sieved.

After a few years of waking up to her calls, hurriedly putting on some clothes and dashing down the stairs, I decide to learn more about her MO (Mode of Operation); so one morning, we (my talented photographer sister and I) arrange to do a little written/photo documentary on her as she goes through her routine.

Alhaja Fausat or Iya Ologi as she is generally called, is a native of Oyo state. She came to Lagos after she got married, and started her business of producing and selling Ogi to support her family. With no sophisticated technology but pure old traditional techniques that she learnt from her mother, she single handedly carries out the production process. She has two surviving children who are grown now and have their own families. The others she says, died in infancy and miscarriages.

From her home in a lower class neighbourhood in Aiyetoro, Aguda, she makes an almost one-hour trek to a middle class residential area. Rising at five in the morning, she prepares for the day and sets out at 6.30 a.m. with her silver tray on her head, laden with three different varieties of Ogi - yellow, white and brown, all wrapped neatly in pieces of transparent nylon. At this point, allow me to say that Alhaja Fausat’s Ogi is like getting fresh milk straight from the cow.

                                                                                                                                 

Today, it’s a cold harmattan morning and all she has on are her Iro and Buba, which are made of a thin material, along with a pair of flat slippers on her feet -nothing to protect her against the chilly weather. This is her usual attire, whether it is during the cold wet mornings of the rainy season where she wades in flooded streets, determined to reach her customers; or the chilly foggy mornings of the harmattan. I have bought Ogi on one of those rainy days; you know the types that discourage you from getting out of bed, even if your life depends on it.
 

She moves with such precision for a woman her age it is almost as if she is on autopilot, but given that she has been walking the same route for 32 years selling Ogi, I guess it is more or less second nature to her. 

 

At frequent intervals she raises the tray above her head, both her arms stretched upwards. She explains that she does this to provide some temporary relief from the strain of the weight of the Ogi. Sometimes, she has pains in her legs, and has to take some medicine – part of the ageing process.

 






















She is no stranger to the streets of this middle-class area as both young and old alike, new residents and old residents - families, who were the first settlers, greet her. Some of the young were still in diapers when she started her business, and now they too have families. For the elderly, sometimes a bit of friendly banter is exchanged while she makes her sale.

As we walk on, she meets another woman who has a tray of Agege bread on her head. She introduces us to the woman and tells us that she has also been selling bread for a long time – 23 years. The two women place their wares on a low wall by the side of the road and have a little tête-à-tête. After a few minutes, they continue walking together, calling out as they go along. After walking through a couple of streets, they part ways.

 

The two women have been meeting along their trade routes for over 20 years

After a two-hour walk, Alhaja Fausat begins the trek back home. Just before we leave her, we ask her to pose for a portrait. She thanks us and prays for us. 

It is clear that this is not just a means for survival for her, but a service that she is proud and happy to render.

Photography by Sybil