The whole of Mama Ekaette’s Bukka smells of palm nut broth, catfish, and native spices. The weak groan of the ceiling fans like a group of men in pain filled his ears. They did little or nothing to chase away the afternoon heat. Plastic tables and chairs were strategically arranged to fit the small space. There were sweaty men seated and hunched over steaming bowls of soup with swallows of pounded yam, garri and fufu.
David, the young journalist wiped his forehead of sweat with his almost drenched handkerchief. He wondered why Mama Ekaette had to insist on being interviewed in her kitchen instead of the dining area. He sighed and adjusted his recorder and pulled out his notepad.
He had traveled from Lagos for this. So he had to endure the smoke only If he truly wished this interview to be his biggest feature on Nigeria’s best roadside chefs. A feature with Mama Ekaette, a woman in her late fifties, short with heavy underarms and huge arms. She's rumored to have the best bangs soup in the whole of Akwa Ibom.
He had interviewed some of her customers earlier as they ate. After seeking mama Ekaette and her customers' permission. And to the people, they didn’t just come for her Banga soup; they swore by it. This intrigued him more as he craved to know what made them come.
He cleared his throat and looked at Mama Ekaette who sat across from him, tying her wrapper tightly. He noticed her hands were stained with years of cooking.
"Ufon (my son), ask your questions. Soup is getting ready."
David fidgeted. "Sorry Ma. I'm just trying to adjust to make sure I'm on the right track."
Mama Ekaette nodded.
David cleared his throat again and asked his first question. "Mama, they said your soup is the best in Akwa Ibom. Do you think it's the best?"
Mama Ekaette adjusted her seat. "Who said that?"
"Your customers Ma. Do you think they're right?"
"If people that eat my food will say such, who am I to dispute. It is said that the quality of the work of your hands will speak for itself. Sometimes, without an advert."
David scribbled a few notes on his pad. "What's your secret?"
Mama Ekaette let out a short laugh. "Ette mi (my father), I should tell you my secret just like that?"
"Please Ma. Just a little insight," David pressed.
Mama Ekaette, picked up her wooden soup and stirred on her bubbling pot of soup. "Have you tasted my soup since you entered here?" She asked.
David shook his head. "No Ma."
Mama Ekaette chuckled lightly. Then she called, "Ekaette! Get our Oga interviewer a plate of Fufu and soup."
Then she kept stirring in silence as they waited till Ekaette appeared in the kitchen with a tray of food. Just as her mother had requested.
Mama Ekaette watched as David molded a lump of Fufu. "Wait!" She said to him before he would put it in his mouth. "First, what do you smell?" she asked.
David put the soup bowl to his nose, sniffed little. His olfactory system was filled with the scent of fresh catfish, crayfish, and uda seeds filling his nose.
"I smell… spices. Fish. Palm oil," he said.
"That's what your nose and brain tells you. The real smell is deeper than all that. I smell struggle, patience, and time." She smiled.
David furrowed his eyelids. "How?"
Mama Ekaette pointed to her boiling pot. "Look into the pot. It's filled with all you smell. But first it passes through a process. First, the palm fruit must be boiled, pounded, and squeezed. That's a struggle. Then the fish must be seasoned and left to sit in the pot, so that the flavour seeps into the soup. That's patience. And the fire must burn slowly, allowing everything to mix. That is time." She stretched again for her wooden soup. "These days, we all want everything to be fast and easy. Fast love, fast success, fast food. But the real things, the really good things of life, take time."
David nodded gently and repeatedly as he scribbled through his notes again. "So that's your secret ingredient. Time."
Mama Ekaette shook her head. "No, my secret ingredient is understanding all these. It's understanding that the soup has a process. Just the same way everything in life whether soup or success must follow a process."
David let his eyes drift to the wall behind her as he let all that she said sink deep. "Who taught you how to cook like this?" he asked.
"My mother. By ten she forced me to be in the kitchen with her. By twelve I was cooking some easy soups. She'll always say to me 'A woman that knows how to cook will never go hungry'.
David smiled. "That’s insightful."
"Yeah. We didn't have much then and survived mainly on soup. Now, I sell soup to survive. I guess it's safe to say that soup is survival. A connection to home. The connection is in the taste of that food."
David thought of her last word. She was right. Good food is a connection to home. But for the last few years, he had spent his time eating fast food that tasted bland. Almost forgetting the taste of home." He smiled. "You're right. That's why everyone thinks their mum's soup is the best. Because it reminds them of home."
Mama Ekaette laughed. *Now, look who's being insightful."
"Go on taste your food and tell me if my customers were right or wrong."
David put the molded eba into his mouth. Then he exhaled deeply. "This is… perfect."
Mama Ekaette smiled. "Not perfect, my son. It's just ready. Because when you understand all the process involved in making a soup. The struggle, patience, and time. You'll make it ready to be enjoyed. To conquer your taste buds."
David picked his notes again and scribbled with his soup stained hands. He wasn’t just writing an article anymore. He was learning.
"It's just like life. When you understand that life has a process of struggle, patience, and time. And you follow them. Then, you'll become ready to conquer."
"But how do you know when it’s ready?"
Mama Ekaette scooped a portion of the boiling soup. Blew into it and tasted it gently with her eyes closed.
"When the taste tells you there’s nothing left to add," she said. She stood up and put down her pot of soup. "I'll leave you to enjoy your soup." Mama Ekaette added.