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Dinner is almost served.

I don’t want to keep them all waiting, she says to herself. The chicken is burning perfect in the oven. The Jollof Rice is almost done. Even though she is the only one home, the aroma from the kitchen swirls through the rooms and brings life to the entire house.

All is well with the Universe.

It’s just past six pm. Thank God they’re running late, she says. Just enough time to get the table sorted out. She presses some fresh juice. Mostly Passion fruit, with an orange or two for some sour. She hums a ninety-ninety-something classic from King Sunny Ade while she’s at it.

It’s not until six-thirty that everything is set. She picks up her phone to call them one by one and ask where they are, then she drops it again. They promised to come, she says to herself.

“Mummy, don’t worry, all of us will come this Saturday,” her first son had said.

Maybe they are stuck in traffic, she says. She looks at the table, all spread out. Pours herself a glass of juice.

She really wants to wait, but her stomach is running out of patience, so she serves herself a small portion of rice, just a few tablespoons. In 10 minutes, she’s serving another small portion, and another, till she can barely get off her chair.

Her phone beeps, but she doesn’t check. She knows it’s a sorry-we-couldn’t-make it text. An I-promise-we’ll-come-next-week, with a really cute heart sign.

She is already clearing the table. The chicken goes into a plastic bowl, then into the freezer. The rice follows. She sees another bowl there, opens it. The Jollof Rice is one week spoilt, no thanks to the freezing and thawing from the power cuts.

Into the trash it goes.

Fuad Lawalis a poet, and copy writer. He blogs at rebelliousflash300.wordpress.com. Follow him on Instagram/Twitter @fuadxiv

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