The restaurant had an offensive odor. Maybe someone made washing-soda at the back, I thought. The ceiling fan wound round like a tired marathoner. It sounded like those small generators when they finally run out of fuel and about to quench. Like mama Nkechi’s snore.

I finally ordered; two chickens, one egg, fried plantain, fried rice and one other thing that looked like fried potato. Later, I realized it wasn’t potato. It tasted like soured beans. I quickly used the Malta-Guinness to douse the bizarre taste. The sales girl watched me as I ate. She was tall. No. Not tall. She just had a long neck.

The malt did not taste well in my mouth. I blamed the straw. I removed the straw and drank directly from the can. But the taste remained the same. I never knew my taste buds were now colonized by zobo. Zobo has been my favorite drink. I combined it with anything, maybe everything. Zobo and rice. Zobo and beans. Zobo and garri. In fact, I almost drank zobo and 7up. It was that addictive.

I bit the first meat. Then the second. Took some spoon of rice. I ate disorderedly. Even if a beautiful girl sat beside me writing very fast, I ignored her. But why was she writing in a restaurant? I almost asked. She had a large head, like a bicycle’s seat.

“5 minutes more!” The sales girl screamed. I raised my head. The lady looked more sternly. She walked towards me and said “Why are you sleeping in the exam hall? Stand up.”

EzekielTrisler
Changing lives through creative write-ups…

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