Waste Not, Want Not.

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Oh! My darling sweet mother.

She truly lives by the saying, "waste not, want not." Nothing ever goes to waste in our house—leftovers are automatically transformed into some how delicious meals, old clothes are mainly turned into cleaning cloths, and even empty containers find new purposes. My mum is truly an example of resourcefulness and gratitude; however, in the weirdest way, though.
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The drama started when my mother refused to throw away a burnt pot of white rice.

"God forbid bad things!" she snapped, waving her stainless spoon like a weapon. She continued, "In this hard economy? When a bag of rice is almost one hundred thousand naira? You children want to kill me, o!" she exclaimed.

The air in our kitchen was already thick with smoke. The rice was charred to the bottom; it was completely burnt. My immediate elder brother, Chima, quickly ran outside to catch his breath since he couldn't stand the smoke any longer and immediately noticed that the smoke was also choking and disturbing a few of our neighbors.

"Hackitty-hack!" Mama Chichi, our neighbor coughed loudly.

"Choke! Splutter! Wheeze!" Yet another neighbor, Mr Ibrahim, coughing, almost choked to death.

"Kah-hof! Kah-hof!" Steven, another neighbor who's a bachelor, suddenly let out a harsh, aggressive-sounding cough.

"Mum, our neighbors are coughing, o. They can also perceive the smell from their kitchens and rooms, I heard someone shout, 'Who dey burn dead body, o?!"

"Happy, get out!" My mother barked in fury.

I immediately shifted before she could turn and hit me with her cooking spoon because, haha, she is very predictable.

"But, Mum... "I had not completed my sentence before my Mum turned sharply and did the predictable—she chased me out of the kitchen with her kitchen spoon—out of her side.

"You will not know the value until hunger wires you. Silly girl," she yelled, still holding her stainless spoon as a weapon.

"Mum, is that how you see it!" I asked calmly, still standing at a distance.

"Yes!" she yelled in fury.

"Beside, everybody has the freedom of expression, such as sneezing and coughing. How can you be sure that my rice made them cough and choke?!" Mum asked, still angry.

"Mum, isn't it obvious? Just look around our room; it's already smoky and choking. The rest of it had gone outside and into our neighbors' houses, and immediately they reacted by coughing." I explained calmly.

"Ehn, 'Mrs. Lecturer,' go and tell them I can not throw away food; we are restructuring. 'Madam talker.'" She smirked, turning to face her restructing charred white rice.

I called it: The Jollof Tragedy of Wednesday.

Now, let me set the stage.

My typical mother once worked in a bustling restaurant, a no-nonsense kitchen boss—she was a tough restaurant woman—sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued, and even the sharpest when she was handling her stainless spoon, mixing spices to create meals. Wasting food? Not under her roof; it was considered a real sin—"every grain counts," she would say. She ran the kitchen like a war; she actually commanded the kitchen like a general on the battlefield. Pots obeyed her. Fire feared her. Even the innocent onion would definitely think twice before making her eyes run watery. At home, my darling mother just dispised wastage in it's entirety; even the word "wastage" shivered at the mention of my Mum's name—waste not, want not. She seriously believed every food was sacred and had a "divine purpose," she would call it—nothing left her kitchen without meaning. My mother doesn't just cook; she transforms scraps into meals. She would actually look a plate of leftover rice in the eye and threaten it into becoming jollof rice. Yes, o. Is that crazy. My father, when he was still alive, was wise enough to always stay silent during kitchen disasters, oftentimes, he would rather retreat to the sitting room with a newspaper shielding his face as mum transformed and evolved any meal into something else.

If my brothers and I dared to scrap something—anything— into the dustbin, she would pause whatever she was doing and fix us with that scary and predictable stare—the one that makes us remember all our sins: sins of the past, present, and even 'future,' so to speak— making us immediately start to reconsider our decisions and retrack from the dustbin. However, for all her firmness, her food was legendary—rich, flavorful, and comforting.

But, honestly, on this very day, I wouldn't say I enjoyed this transformed charred jollof rice

"You're throwing that away? Are you feeding the dustbin now? Has the bin started paying your school fees in this house?" She asked those numerous questions in a voice that's calm enough to terrify us.

"Noooo!!!" we all answered, promptly.

However, back to my mother's kitchen.

As the smoke cleared, Mum announced her battle plan. "We will scrap the pot, rinse the burnt taste out, and fry it into a 'party-style' rice. They do it at Yoruba weddings," she declared confidently.

"But, Mum... they do not rinse jollof rice like it were socks." I said cautiously.

"Madam, I too sabi! did I ask for your opinion?" she said as she glared at me with those furious eyeballs.

"No, ma." I answered simply and immediately shifted gradually from her side.

So it began.

First, she scraped off the blackened bottom, humming hymns as if each note she hummed might lift the meal back to glory. Then she rinsed the reddish rice in a sieve, muttering about "spoilt children who do not know suffering." Immediately, she started her frying ritual— she heated the oil, added a mountain of onions, maggi seasoning, heaps of smoked fish and crayfish and...

Ta-ra— her final act of defiance was ready.

A new reconstructed jollof rice.

Ready to eat.

We had no choice but to eat it 'with gratitude'. She would call it.

"Eat it with gratitude," Mum insisted, arms crossed like a military personnel. "Back in the days, during Buhari's first coming, I cooked soup from bean water, and it was delicious," she protested, with a serious facial expression.

"Eeewww! Mum! Not even a hungry rat would eat that," Chima exclaimed, disgusted.

"But seriously, Mum! That's suicidal." I said in support of Chima.

"You two should stay there and continue to speak grammar. This thing I'm telling you now, ehn, in those days, people will eat it and lick their fingers, and while others would even ask me for more." Mum said proudly.

Now, back to the charred jollof rice

Chima took one bite and screamed, "It taste like a salty barbecue, mum!"

My other eldest brothers, Uzor and Victor, burst into serious laughter until it was their own turn to take a bite.

Uzor, who was diplomatic by nature, quietly pushed his plate under the table. Victor took just one bite and immediately became dumb. I actually pretended to have malaria and tooth pain, using the excuse that I could not chew with the pain. "Mum, I think you should give me any liquid food, where I would not have to chew." I said, acting sick. Meanwhile, Dad, his lovely husband, chewed slowly like a man reviewing his life choices.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Please, ma'am, check what you have on fire. My son is coughing, and he said it's your window that's smelling." Mama John, our neighbor, pleaded calmly.

"Ah! Forgive me, oh, ehn! But next time your son smells anything funny or suspicious, tell him to grab his nose like this—" (she pinched her nose sarcastically). Mum apologized with a dramatic sigh, a smirk dancing at the corner of her lips.

"People are not serious in this compound." she muttered as she watched Mama John walk away.

But the story has a twist.

Two days later, we came back home and found my brother's dog, Bullet, had broken into the fridge, where mum had kept the leftover restructured jollof rice.The container was licked clean, and Bullet was lying motionless on the floor, snoring loudly like a drunkard.

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"Mum! Mum! Look! Bullet ate the rice and passed out!" I exclaimed, pointing at the already empty container.

"Good, at least somebody appreciates my cooking." she said in excitement.

We all burst into laughter.

"I have eventually seen that not all 'lost food needs saving;' however, we would not waste like rich people. Mum said smiling.

In my family, Waste not, want not is not just a proverb.

It's an actual threat.

THANKS A LOT FOR READING ME