Eko Food

When you walk into Eko Food, what first strikes you is the cramped quarters. Sacks of rice and cartons of Nido and Peak milk line the shelves. The smell of butcher meat floats in the small space. It should really be called A Small Chunk of Nigeria Tucked on a Plane to America by Nigerians Who are Nostalgic for Home and Refuse to Part With Their Egusi Soup.  I stroll down the aisles, basket in tow, tossing in all the necessary seasonings for the dishes I’m going to make, courtesy of many years of trial and error.  At age 8, the first thing I learned to cook was rice. I stood on a stool to reach the stove top. Ever since then, my relationship with cooking has evolved.  

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A Nollywood DVD plays on the tiny TV hanging in the corner above the front counter. If a film isn’t playing, then its music--sometimes Afrobeat, other times Gospel or Highlife.  The cashier is trying to get her baby to sleep as she rings up the orders. The baby, tied to her back with an Ankara cloth, is nodding off.  Aunty Frieda has eyes everywhere. One eye is on the customer, and the other is poised on the twin boys sitting on the cushions, still dressed in their navy blue and white school uniforms, coloring pictures of animals. She can save on the costs of babysitting this way, which in our rapidly expanding suburban neighborhood, is rising, as more couples begin their adult lives with demanding 9-5 jobs.  I run my fingers along the aisle of plantain chips trying to decide if I want mild or spicy. The baby on Auntie Frieda’s back starts mewling like she wants to cry. She paces back and forth as I scan the wall for a few calling cards. 

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I am so distracted by the vintage Nollywood poster for “Misplaced Destiny”  that I forget I’m supposed to be grabbing some goat meat to put in this week’s soup. The line to the butcher is long today and the skinny blade slices through the various cuts of meat, making a screeching sound that grates on my ears. I get in the butcher line, and slide in my earphones, expecting a long wait. The woman next to me is irritated. She’s a nurse. I can tell by the blue and purple floral scrubs she wears and the crocs on her feet. New bags have formed under her eyes that were once haloed by fading eyeshadow.  She is upset because only one machine works, and she wants to get home before the streetlights flicker on, so she starts arguing with the butcher.

“Madam, using two machines would slow us down even if the other one worked.” The butcher says. 

“You can’t be serious.”  She rolls her eyes. “He thinks he is talking to someone from the village somewhere.”

She says village, as if in her light brown wig, powdered face, subtle pink lipstick, and gold watch, it would be unlikely that someone would think she of all people was from the village. Yet, life in the country side came with its charms, legacies, and the heritage and culture stored in those villages that people have been migrating away from in search of opportunities elsewhere. The village is where the stories usually begin, is where the tortoise always tries to outsmart the hare. 

        Meanwhile, the guy a few feet away from us is trying to explain why he is buying this lump sum of bright red beef with the visibly yellow fat weighing it down as we watch the butcher dole out his portions. 

“I only get it once in a while. I actually exercise very often.  This week is my cheat week.” He says, to no one in particular.

It feels like the health police caught him red-handed breaking a cardinal rule.

When it’s my turn, I go for the lean Obasanjo chicken-- nicknamed after Nigeria’s former head-of-state. It is scrawny because it was not cultivated with hormones or fertilizer, so I am told. Next to a fat, plump, American drumstick,  it would appear malnourished. Nonetheless, I will use it to make my stew. When I am finished with the butcher, I wait at the front counter while a Cameroonian woman sends money to her relative across the sea via Western Union. When I have all of my groceries I tell Aunty Frieda goodbye, and she smiles, knowing this is not really good bye because I will be back next week when the stew in the fridge is finished.