There are some Sundays that wake up feeling just like every normal day, and then there are Sundays that leave memories stamped on your heart forever. Today was one of those unforgettable days.
This morning, I woke up to a plan that sounded simple at first but turned into an adventure — my husband, his friends, and their wives decided we would travel all the way from Lagos to the East, just to taste a dish that has lived in our conversations, cravings.
Food, after all, is not just about eating. It is about memory, connection, and sometimes, love.
Today Sunday and I went hangout with my husband and his friends who came with their wives, we decided that we're going to travel all the way from Lagos to East today to eat our favourite local dish. Well, I haven't really eaten it before but my husband once brought it back home for me when he travelled to see his mum.
We arrived at the spot — forgive me, I cannot share the exact location — but if you know, you know. One of those hidden places where the magic of tradition hasn’t been watered down by modern life. The kind of place where food is more than food; it is culture on a plate. But The tables were filled quickly. Drinks were ordered. I asked for something light, a bit alcoholic, to set the mood. Then the food came in… According to the image that's a finished plate, And oh, my dear readers, I wish I could have captured the sight before the fight — but forgive me, I was too eager to dive in. The picture I managed to take only shows the aftermath, the crime scene of satisfied bellies and greedy hands. But if you look closely, you can almost imagine the goodness that once filled those bowls. 🥹
Oh I was so busy eating my heart out. It was so delicious. Meanwhile There is one part of this story that still makes me laugh. As the food arrived, my husband excused himself to go spend some time with my in-law. He told me to wait for him before eating. I really wanted to wait, but the food stared at me for thirty long minutes. Thirty minutes of playing polite, pretending not to notice the aroma crawling into my nose, not to hear my stomach grumble like a stubborn generator.
Then his call came:
"Baby, don’t wait for me. Go ahead and eat."
That was all I needed. I dived in, my lovelies. With all the joy of a woman finally reunited with a lost treasure.
I I ate until my heart was satisfied — or at least I pretended to be. Truth be told, I wanted to lick the plate clean, but how do you explain that to your husband’s friends and their wives? How do you tell them that you’ve missed this dish so much that one plate isn’t enough?
So, I stopped halfway, acting like the “polite wife,” though inside, my spirit was saying “who even invented table manners?”
When my husband finally returned, I pushed my plate toward him, smiling sweetly as though I had saved it just for him. He ate his own, then happily finished mine. That’s the beauty of marriage, isn’t it? Sharing meals, sharing laughter, sharing moments that look ordinary but mean everything.
There was something about watching him eat — the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he smiled after each bite. It reminded me why food is more than food. It’s about love, memory, and belonging.
Now, as I write this, I’m in the car, heading back to the hotel. Tomorrow, we return to Lagos on the first flight. But in my heart, I am carrying this experience with me.✈️
If there’s anything this trip taught me, it’s this: sometimes, happiness is a plate of food away. Sometimes, joy is not about waiting for the perfect moment but about seizing it when it arrives — even if it means diving into your meal before your husband gets back.
And sometimes, the most beautiful memories are not the ones we capture with our phones but the ones we carry in our hearts.
So here’s my encouragement to you, dear reader: Don’t just eat to fill your stomach. Eat to feel. Eat to remember. Eat to connect. And if the food is calling your name, don’t be too polite — answer it!
Because life is too short to let good food wait.
From Lagos to the East, from hunger to fullness, from waiting to diving in — this was my Sunday story.
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