Fiction
"Bend the Knee"
By Nneoma Kenure
By Nneoma Kenure
The chimes from the kitchen clock nudged Ekeoma out of her food induced reverie as it announced it was five p.m. It was time to go home. It didn't matter that her curfew was at six and her home was only two blocks from Biola’s. She would have to leave fast because Biola’s father would be home soon. He was a director at the Federal Airport Authority and always left work at five o'clock. Since they all lived at the Airport staff quarters, he would be home in exactly eight minutes.
Ekeoma swallowed the last of her sugared doughnut in big gulps, then let bigger waves of the ginger spiced zobo drink push it all down.
“Kai! Ekeoma, why are you eating like it’s your first and only meal when your mother is the best cook in the quarters?” Biola asked with an indulgent smile.
As she walked away to the pantry, Ekeoma’s eyes followed her friend’s bare feet as they moved across the large kitchen. Biola’s feet slapped gently on the large beige tiles with the poise and oblivion of a life of comfort.
“I have to go help her wash some beans for tomorrow’s moi-moi.” The lie slid out of her mouth as smoothly as a ball of fufu enfolded in hot ogbono would glide down her throat.
“Your mum’s moi-moi is heavenly,” Biola said. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you know what she puts in it? And when will she make ofe akwu again?”
Their mothers both worked for the catering division of the Airport Authority. While Biola’s house seemed to always proffer lilting whiffs of hot baking dough and delicate hints of cinnamon, Ekeoma’s was always encased in dense puffs of ogiri or okporoko. Biola’s father was a level fourteen civil servant, so their family lived in a beautiful corner-piece bungalow. The living room was almost ethereal, with white curtains that billowed every time the glass doors that opened into the gardens were left open. It had luxurious white sofas that asked that you forget all your worries as they embraced you tenderly. Ekeoma loved the kitchen most of all; it was nothing like her mother’s with its soot stained walls and the chipped pestle in the large wooden mortar. The only furniture was the one wobbly stool on which her mother sat. It was so low, it became invisible when mother’s wide frame enveloped the stool and looked like she was performing a rather amazing feat of hovering over the floor.
Their family lived on the ground floor in the block of flats sometimes referred to as barracks by the kids in the estate. Ekeoma’s mother, a level four cook, had been lucky to be assigned living quarters only because it was imperative that the best cook the Airport Authority administration had ever hired could get to work earlier than others. Usually, accommodation was reserved for staff of level six and above. Their apartment faced the backyard of another building so that the only thing that ever caught a wind was their neighbours’ laundry on the clothesline. In Biola’s house, the kitchen wasn't just a place for pushing out meals. It featured an enormous hand-carved table with six chairs that always seemed to be encumbered by pies, cakes, and other exotic treats, and, as it had an air conditioner, it was no wonder the family spent a lot of time in there, laughing over sweet drinks and doughy pleasures.
Ekeoma loved Biola’s house. It felt like it could be her future. She would walk into her own home one day and turn on a gas cooker instead of a smoking kerosene stove. There would be a large piano, with loving pictures of her family in a corner. She would dare to have an all-white living room too, and it would stay white no matter the ages of her children because nobody had grubby soot-tinted hands. She would shuffle and do a jig barefoot in her own kitchen with the luxury of clean floors. Biola’s house was different from everything she'd ever known, and she loved spending the day here.
Why doesn't your friend ever come to your own house? She heard the held back disgruntle in her mother’s voice in her head and promptly dismissed it to ponder her immediate problem.
In a few minutes, when Biola’s father walked into his house, his daughters would say “welcome daddy” as they went down on their knees, and his son would prostrate flat on the floor in the traditional Yoruba way. This folding and unfolding of selves barely took all of five seconds, but it was always five seconds of awkwardness for Ekeoma. She had never enjoyed sticking out, but worse was knowing it could be interpreted as being rude, which added levels of anxiety that she was not sure the situation deserved. She did not want to be rude. At other times, when she gave in to the more casual slight bending of her knees, an acceptable Yoruba curtsy, she just felt stupid. In her very Igbo home, you said “good morning” to your parents and all adults standing up. She knew that this was impolite to some of her Yoruba friends, and she really didn't want them to think ill of her.
Her father was big on handshakes, which, to be fair, is not very Nigerian. When he came back home after a long day commuting from the Apapa ports where he was an office clerk, he responded to the “welcome daddy” from his children with a warm handshake and a twinkle in his eye as he called out for a glass of ice-cold water. He would tickle his wife as she warmed his soup on the sputtering stove, and her girlish squeals would reverberate through the cubicle they called home. Some Igbo girls knelt without skipping a beat, so why was it so difficult for her to do this? Did she think she was betraying her own self and perhaps her tribe?
Ekeoma actually enjoyed watching her Yoruba friends and siblings greet their parents; she thought it was a beautiful thing –this obeisance – but every time she'd tried it, it felt foreign and unnatural.
“She doesn’t use water, always beef stock,” Ekeoma said. Biola stuck her head out of the pantry so Ekeoma could see her questioning look. “That’s the secret to my mum’s moi-moi,” Ekeoma explained.
The clock ticked on as Ekeoma glared at it for a full minute. She let out a loud sigh and then called out, “I am sorry Biola, but I have to go now.”
“Then who will eat this cheesecake I was saving for last?” Biola asked as she finally emerged holding a large white cake with strawberries on it. Ekeoma had never seen real strawberries. It suddenly seemed excessively silly to give up the prospect of actually eating one for mere seconds of discomfiture.
“How about I help you with that cheesecake and I’ll bring you some ofe akwu later?” She glanced at the clock as she spoke. Four minutes had gone by already. She would have to make a decision quickly.
She had tried different ways to handle her dilemma. She made sure she was sitting when the father actually walked into the house; it always looked better if she stood up to greet him. It meant she had acknowledged his right to be deferred to. She didn't mind deferring; that was not her problem. Except, while she was going up, everyone else was going down. Once, she had pretended to drop something so that she was already on her knees when he walked in. While this was a good plan, she couldn't possibly start dropping things at the same time every day. Someone would notice, wouldn’t they? Her sisters had no problem genuflecting. She'd been surprised to find they had never even given it a thought; it was no big deal.
“You greet and move on. I don't understand you Ekeoma. Why do you have to complicate everything?” Ify had queried, her mouth upended by a sour pout. Her sister was right. It was really no big deal, but there was something about a physical lowering of one's self that was alien to her. “If you had to meet the queen of England, wouldn’t you curtsy?” Ekeoma eyed Ify, looking her up and down in rapid succession to show her irritation. Of course she would be okay with bending the knee to the queen of England, but she was sure she would be just as tired of it if she was running into her majesty every other day.
Had that clock always ticked so heavily? The hands seemed to be marching along with purpose. There were less than two minutes left, and Biola was still rummaging through the fridge. Ekeoma pushed away her chair reluctantly. “I really have to go now Biola.”
“Ahn ahn! What’s chasing you na?” Biola returned to the table with a bowl from the fridge and slowly poured on a strawberry glaze on the cheesecake. Ekeoma fell back in her chair in exasperation.
Chai! I really want to eat this cake. Maybe Biola’s dad would be late today. Maybe someone would bring in a file last minute that had to be attended to immediately. Maybe there was a car accident at the front of the Airport so that no one could go in or out. Maybe even a bomb threat. Those things pretty much happen at one airport or the other. Wasn't this airport due for one? If she wanted a part of this cake, she needed to make a decision fast. What are my options? She could either kneel or not. That was it. Was there any situation where she could explain to the adults: Look, I want to be respectful, but kneeling is not my thing? A tiny laugh escaped her lips as she scoffed at the mere thought. That was not an option.
“Just wait small. I can wrap this up for you to take home.” Biola walked back to the drawer and returned with a roll of aluminum foil and a can of whipped cream. “I had planned to make some fresh whipped cream but since you are suddenly in a hurry…” Ekeoma loved whipped cream. How could something so delicate and pleasing be food?
The sound of a car coming into the compound was unmistakable. There had been no unforeseen mishap to keep the civil servant away from home longer. A car door slammed shut, and the crunching on gravel grew louder as it got closer. Biola, unaware of her friend’s quandary, had decided the foil was inappropriate for the creamy cheesecake and foraged for an appropriate container in a large drawer. As the front door slid open all the way in the living room, Ekeoma realized that it was Friday.
You see, on Fridays, her father got to leave work early. Her mother’s bay-leaf-perfumed Jollof rice would fill the air so that neighbors, led by their noses, slinked towards her home under different pretexts, like zombies with brains on their own fetid brains. Ify would fry yellow ripe plantains until they were golden brown with crisp edges and mellow middles. The sounds of Sunny Okosun and Onyeka Onwenu singing idyllic songs of love from days long gone would float through the apartment from the small radio on the window sill as her mother, bent over the little stove, swung her wide hips from side to side. There would be mounds of pounded yam and a bowl of soup laden with strips of shaki and stewed snails as big as her fists for her dad. He would bite into succulent chunks of goat meat as the nutty palm-oil sauce threatened to drip past his fingers.
And so Ekeoma knew, as she made for the back door, that Biola would have to come visit her if she wanted some of her mother’s cooking. And she would not kneel.
Ekeoma swallowed the last of her sugared doughnut in big gulps, then let bigger waves of the ginger spiced zobo drink push it all down.
“Kai! Ekeoma, why are you eating like it’s your first and only meal when your mother is the best cook in the quarters?” Biola asked with an indulgent smile.
As she walked away to the pantry, Ekeoma’s eyes followed her friend’s bare feet as they moved across the large kitchen. Biola’s feet slapped gently on the large beige tiles with the poise and oblivion of a life of comfort.
“I have to go help her wash some beans for tomorrow’s moi-moi.” The lie slid out of her mouth as smoothly as a ball of fufu enfolded in hot ogbono would glide down her throat.
“Your mum’s moi-moi is heavenly,” Biola said. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you know what she puts in it? And when will she make ofe akwu again?”
Their mothers both worked for the catering division of the Airport Authority. While Biola’s house seemed to always proffer lilting whiffs of hot baking dough and delicate hints of cinnamon, Ekeoma’s was always encased in dense puffs of ogiri or okporoko. Biola’s father was a level fourteen civil servant, so their family lived in a beautiful corner-piece bungalow. The living room was almost ethereal, with white curtains that billowed every time the glass doors that opened into the gardens were left open. It had luxurious white sofas that asked that you forget all your worries as they embraced you tenderly. Ekeoma loved the kitchen most of all; it was nothing like her mother’s with its soot stained walls and the chipped pestle in the large wooden mortar. The only furniture was the one wobbly stool on which her mother sat. It was so low, it became invisible when mother’s wide frame enveloped the stool and looked like she was performing a rather amazing feat of hovering over the floor.
Their family lived on the ground floor in the block of flats sometimes referred to as barracks by the kids in the estate. Ekeoma’s mother, a level four cook, had been lucky to be assigned living quarters only because it was imperative that the best cook the Airport Authority administration had ever hired could get to work earlier than others. Usually, accommodation was reserved for staff of level six and above. Their apartment faced the backyard of another building so that the only thing that ever caught a wind was their neighbours’ laundry on the clothesline. In Biola’s house, the kitchen wasn't just a place for pushing out meals. It featured an enormous hand-carved table with six chairs that always seemed to be encumbered by pies, cakes, and other exotic treats, and, as it had an air conditioner, it was no wonder the family spent a lot of time in there, laughing over sweet drinks and doughy pleasures.
Ekeoma loved Biola’s house. It felt like it could be her future. She would walk into her own home one day and turn on a gas cooker instead of a smoking kerosene stove. There would be a large piano, with loving pictures of her family in a corner. She would dare to have an all-white living room too, and it would stay white no matter the ages of her children because nobody had grubby soot-tinted hands. She would shuffle and do a jig barefoot in her own kitchen with the luxury of clean floors. Biola’s house was different from everything she'd ever known, and she loved spending the day here.
Why doesn't your friend ever come to your own house? She heard the held back disgruntle in her mother’s voice in her head and promptly dismissed it to ponder her immediate problem.
In a few minutes, when Biola’s father walked into his house, his daughters would say “welcome daddy” as they went down on their knees, and his son would prostrate flat on the floor in the traditional Yoruba way. This folding and unfolding of selves barely took all of five seconds, but it was always five seconds of awkwardness for Ekeoma. She had never enjoyed sticking out, but worse was knowing it could be interpreted as being rude, which added levels of anxiety that she was not sure the situation deserved. She did not want to be rude. At other times, when she gave in to the more casual slight bending of her knees, an acceptable Yoruba curtsy, she just felt stupid. In her very Igbo home, you said “good morning” to your parents and all adults standing up. She knew that this was impolite to some of her Yoruba friends, and she really didn't want them to think ill of her.
Her father was big on handshakes, which, to be fair, is not very Nigerian. When he came back home after a long day commuting from the Apapa ports where he was an office clerk, he responded to the “welcome daddy” from his children with a warm handshake and a twinkle in his eye as he called out for a glass of ice-cold water. He would tickle his wife as she warmed his soup on the sputtering stove, and her girlish squeals would reverberate through the cubicle they called home. Some Igbo girls knelt without skipping a beat, so why was it so difficult for her to do this? Did she think she was betraying her own self and perhaps her tribe?
Ekeoma actually enjoyed watching her Yoruba friends and siblings greet their parents; she thought it was a beautiful thing –this obeisance – but every time she'd tried it, it felt foreign and unnatural.
“She doesn’t use water, always beef stock,” Ekeoma said. Biola stuck her head out of the pantry so Ekeoma could see her questioning look. “That’s the secret to my mum’s moi-moi,” Ekeoma explained.
The clock ticked on as Ekeoma glared at it for a full minute. She let out a loud sigh and then called out, “I am sorry Biola, but I have to go now.”
“Then who will eat this cheesecake I was saving for last?” Biola asked as she finally emerged holding a large white cake with strawberries on it. Ekeoma had never seen real strawberries. It suddenly seemed excessively silly to give up the prospect of actually eating one for mere seconds of discomfiture.
“How about I help you with that cheesecake and I’ll bring you some ofe akwu later?” She glanced at the clock as she spoke. Four minutes had gone by already. She would have to make a decision quickly.
She had tried different ways to handle her dilemma. She made sure she was sitting when the father actually walked into the house; it always looked better if she stood up to greet him. It meant she had acknowledged his right to be deferred to. She didn't mind deferring; that was not her problem. Except, while she was going up, everyone else was going down. Once, she had pretended to drop something so that she was already on her knees when he walked in. While this was a good plan, she couldn't possibly start dropping things at the same time every day. Someone would notice, wouldn’t they? Her sisters had no problem genuflecting. She'd been surprised to find they had never even given it a thought; it was no big deal.
“You greet and move on. I don't understand you Ekeoma. Why do you have to complicate everything?” Ify had queried, her mouth upended by a sour pout. Her sister was right. It was really no big deal, but there was something about a physical lowering of one's self that was alien to her. “If you had to meet the queen of England, wouldn’t you curtsy?” Ekeoma eyed Ify, looking her up and down in rapid succession to show her irritation. Of course she would be okay with bending the knee to the queen of England, but she was sure she would be just as tired of it if she was running into her majesty every other day.
Had that clock always ticked so heavily? The hands seemed to be marching along with purpose. There were less than two minutes left, and Biola was still rummaging through the fridge. Ekeoma pushed away her chair reluctantly. “I really have to go now Biola.”
“Ahn ahn! What’s chasing you na?” Biola returned to the table with a bowl from the fridge and slowly poured on a strawberry glaze on the cheesecake. Ekeoma fell back in her chair in exasperation.
Chai! I really want to eat this cake. Maybe Biola’s dad would be late today. Maybe someone would bring in a file last minute that had to be attended to immediately. Maybe there was a car accident at the front of the Airport so that no one could go in or out. Maybe even a bomb threat. Those things pretty much happen at one airport or the other. Wasn't this airport due for one? If she wanted a part of this cake, she needed to make a decision fast. What are my options? She could either kneel or not. That was it. Was there any situation where she could explain to the adults: Look, I want to be respectful, but kneeling is not my thing? A tiny laugh escaped her lips as she scoffed at the mere thought. That was not an option.
“Just wait small. I can wrap this up for you to take home.” Biola walked back to the drawer and returned with a roll of aluminum foil and a can of whipped cream. “I had planned to make some fresh whipped cream but since you are suddenly in a hurry…” Ekeoma loved whipped cream. How could something so delicate and pleasing be food?
The sound of a car coming into the compound was unmistakable. There had been no unforeseen mishap to keep the civil servant away from home longer. A car door slammed shut, and the crunching on gravel grew louder as it got closer. Biola, unaware of her friend’s quandary, had decided the foil was inappropriate for the creamy cheesecake and foraged for an appropriate container in a large drawer. As the front door slid open all the way in the living room, Ekeoma realized that it was Friday.
You see, on Fridays, her father got to leave work early. Her mother’s bay-leaf-perfumed Jollof rice would fill the air so that neighbors, led by their noses, slinked towards her home under different pretexts, like zombies with brains on their own fetid brains. Ify would fry yellow ripe plantains until they were golden brown with crisp edges and mellow middles. The sounds of Sunny Okosun and Onyeka Onwenu singing idyllic songs of love from days long gone would float through the apartment from the small radio on the window sill as her mother, bent over the little stove, swung her wide hips from side to side. There would be mounds of pounded yam and a bowl of soup laden with strips of shaki and stewed snails as big as her fists for her dad. He would bite into succulent chunks of goat meat as the nutty palm-oil sauce threatened to drip past his fingers.
And so Ekeoma knew, as she made for the back door, that Biola would have to come visit her if she wanted some of her mother’s cooking. And she would not kneel.
