Soup gone wrong

"Buu, come see this," my little sister called my nickname, which was known to just my siblings.

I turned away from what I was doing to know why she needed my attention.

"Check the soup; I don't know what happened; it's testing somehow." She felt agitated like a paranoid mother, waiting to confirm what her instant must have told her—that she had made a mistake.

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With so much respect,she came to me to confirm her fears. I took the spoon, which she held for turning the soup, before having a taste. Even looking at the soup, I knew something was wrong.

I looked at her and said, "What have you done? This soup tastes burnt. How did you cook it?" I asked, still pounding, why an okro soup would taste so burnt.

"I fried the ogbono first before the okro." I widened my eyes at her. We usually add a little ogbono to our okro soup to make it up.

"That ogbono is small; why will you fry it till it dries before adding the okro? It will burn now." I scolded my little sister, who panicked, walking from one end of the kitchen to another. I could hear her heart beating like a timing bomb.

"I did not know," she defended.

"You know Mummy is going to kill you," she clutched me like a baby to a mother, begging with her eyes for a solution.

My mother, who wasn't around at that time, had asked my little sister to make some soup before she came back.

"What are we going to do?" She asked while I etched an eyebrow at her. It was her mess; she needed to clean up in the next 30 minutes before mom would come back.

"Please, what are we going to do?" She begged. The soup was so bad that nobody was willing to eat it.

The money spent on the soup was from my mother, and I knew how angry she could be when she found out her effort was just a waste.

The house might collapse with her shout, and we might not even have a wonderful night's rest that day.

I checked my purse; I still have a little money hanging around. Though it has been budgeted for something else, I had to use it to save my little sister. It was for the peace of the home.

Immediately, we brought out a sieve and separated the meat and fish that had been used for the soup. I washed it and kept it out of the eyes of others before pouring away the remains.

This was just confidential between me and my little sister, and I knew how my other siblings could be. Involving them was a suicide, as it may slip off their tongue unknowingly.

I took my sister to the nearby shop to get all we needed for another soup. I could see her hand shaking, and she felt agitated over the whole situation.

We bought the needed ingredients and rushed home. The beam of sunlight peeked through the branches, casting a yellow path on the floor. It was almost nightfall, and the wind on my skin showed it might actually be a chilly night.

My kind of favorite night was when we got home and started cooking all over. This time I monitored her closely, so no mistake will be made. Before night fell, my mother was already back with a cheerful smile as she stood at the kitchen door.

We were almost done; just adding up the vegetables was the last part of it. We breathed a sigh of relief that our plans had finally worked.

We served the food, and everyone ate to their satisfaction without uttering a negative word about the soup.

"The things I do for you." We gushed over her silly mistake, laughing it out like it was nothing—not until the day I made a mistake and my little sister was the first to report it to my mother.

I wasn't pained over my silly mistake; I was pained by the person who first reported it. Before my mother got home to caution me, I could hear her roaring voice from outside the house.

I knew I was in hot soup; this house might not be able to enter us. Even my neighbors knew what I did that day.

Why didn't my sister keep calm? I was going to take care of my mess without anyone knowing. Now she spelled it out, and I hope she is happy now.

I asked my sister why she had to tell Mummy; she never uttered a word, looking at me like she regretted her actions.

That didn't stop our good relationship, and whenever we remember it, we laugh it out loud under the carpet.