A Final Meal
By Nkechi Hokstad
A final meal. Such an American death row concept. To Chichi, at any rate. How could one possibly decide on the last thing they would ever get to taste? It seemed like a way of prolonging and intensifying the mental torture of knowing that, by this time tomorrow, you would cease to exist.
What would Chichi’s final meal be?
A steak, perhaps. Rib-eye, not sirloin. Medium rare. That was a lie. Well done. As much as her tastes had changed, she still could not wrap her head around people who were happy to eat their meat a bloody rare or pink.
Or maybe a burger. With cheese, pickles, mustard, ketchup, relish. Crispy rashers of bacon, even. She toyed with the idea of a sesame-seeded bap. Or the sweetness of brioche, although this would inevitably crumble under the weight of its insides.
Perhaps she would take a more traditional route. Jollof rice. The party kind, where the smoke from the outdoor fire infused each grain with a savouriness that could never be replicated in the sterility of a modern kitchen. Smothered in stew, itself cooked to within an inch of its existence in bleached palm oil. Chunky pieces of beef, pressure-boiled, fried and sizzling in vegetable oil, then marinated in the bubbling stew.
Or suya. Tenderised strips of the finest fillet cuts of beef, thinly sliced, rubbed with peanut oil and slapped onto an outdoor charcoal grill, and garnished with a special blend of spices, diced onions and tomatoes. Sadly, unlike back home, there was no Mai Suya to be found, and all of Chichi’s past efforts at recreating authenticity had proved futile.
There was nothing to be done but raid her long bare kitchen cupboards. Nestled behind some stale expired spices was a solitary tin of baked beans. Afternoons spent in her mother’s kitchen picking out weevils and stones from the black-eyed beans bought from Ochanja Market had given Chichi a lifelong hatred of all types of beans, but hunger was a reliable neutraliser.
She heated the tin’s contents in her smallest pot on her smallest hob, watching closely as the tomato sauce bubbled and curled around the sides, the same way fire had licked up the sides and bodies of Ochanja Market mere weeks ago. A searing sense of guilt burned through Chichi’s mind but she doused it out with a sigh of resignation. She would eat the beans straight out of the pot, for there was no longer any need for plates or niceties.
Chichi rinsed out the pot when she was done. After all, a lifetime of habit could not be so easily eradicated. She lay down on her back on the hard floor, eyes transfixed on the elaborate ceiling rose with a dim naked lightbulb swaying under the weight of years-old cobwebs. She took one final glance around the room, with trails of mould snaking their way from the ceiling to the floor and encircling the foggy windows covered in condensation, before gently closing her eyes.
Never having been overtly religious, Chichi had derived comfort from the unfailing belief that the end was her end. She would never get to rest in the red earth of her father’s compound. Not for her an elaborate burial preceded by funeral rites. She did not even know if or when she would be found.
But death has its own way of making a grand entrance, with permeating scents clawing their way through the air and blue bottle flies buzzing with equal amounts of joy and regret.
Nkechi Hokstad (neé Chigbue) (@ladyk_nh) was born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria. A lawyer by day and a 2019 AFREADA x Africa Writes finalist, Nkechi spends her spare time trying to overcome her fear of writing … by writing.
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