FICTION || Solape Adetutu Adeyemi: The Owambe Goat That Refused to Become Pepper Soup
Penned in Rage Journal, Amplifying Marginalized Voices |
I've always loved owambes. One thing about Yorubas? They don't attend parties,
they produce blockbusters. Sometimes I wonder... was that one of the reasons I married my husband? Maybe. Maybe not. But it certainly didn't hurt.
A few months after we got married, we received an invitation to my husband's uncle's daughter's wedding.
Excited is an understatement.
My husband bought the aso ebi, gold and silver patterned silky lace. The kind of lace that doesn't scratch your skin or argue with your body. It simply rests there like it knows it's expensive.
I sewed a gorgeous iro and buba. My hairstylist came to the house and transformed me into somebody's rich aunty. Hair? Flawless. Makeup? Immaculate. When she was done, my husband looked at me, blinked twice and asked,
"Excuse me... have you seen my wife?"
I smiled modestly.
Our car, unfortunately, was at the mechanic's workshop.
"We can enter danfo," my husband suggested casually.
Public transport?
Public what??
Not with ₦100,000 lace wrapped around my body!
Imagine one conductor screaming "CMS! CMS!! Obalende!!!" while decorating my face with free saliva. Or somebody's rusty nail introducing itself to my lace.
God forbid bad thing.
I immediately booked an Uber. Peace of mind is priceless.
On our way, my husband kept stealing admiring glances at me. I could almost hear his thoughts.
"Congratulations, young man. Marrying an Eastern girl was your best investment."
We arrived at the event centre and, as expected, Yoruba people did not disappoint.
First course?
Grilled fish and red wine.
I dealt with both respectfully.
Water? Never.
Water has one mission in my life, to make my stomach swell before the real food arrives.
I refused to sabotage myself.
Next came Ofada rice.
I welcomed it with open arms.
Then came pounded yam wrapped in leaves.
Ladies and gentlemen...
I should have known this was where my village people quietly signed attendance.
I ate.
And ate.
And suddenly... my stomach submitted a resignation letter.
There was no vacancy again.
Not even one teaspoon.
I looked around desperately.
If only somebody had Andrew's Liver Salt.
Unfortunately, Andrew himself was unavailable.
Then inspiration struck.
"Go to the restroom," I told myself.
"Create more accommodation."
Brilliant plan.
I went.
Pushed.
Heaved.
Panted.
Negotiated.
Prayed.
Nothing.
Even my intestines folded their arms and refused to cooperate.
I returned to the table defeated.
Now I could only admire the remaining food with my eyes while my stomach displayed a giant NO VACANCY sign.
[Pictured: Solape Adetutu Adeyemi. She has degrees in Microbiology and Environmental Management. She has published work in the New York Times,
the Kalahari review and the Indianapolis Review to mention a few.]
My husband was happily spraying the couple on the dance floor while I sat there feeling like someone who had swallowed a sack of cement.
The pounded yam had apparently started expanding with alacrity inside my stomach.
I became so heavy I could barely move.
Then sleep started dealing with me.
Just as I was nodding off...
People started tying goats to our chairs.
Goats.
Actual live goats.
Ehn???
I sat upright immediately.
Goat meat pepper soup?
Jesus is Lord!
These Yoruba people don't play at all.
One goat per couple!
At that moment, every trace of sleep disappeared.
I quickly brought out the large nylon bag I permanently keep inside my handbag.
See, there are two types of Nigerians.
Those who laugh at people carrying nylon bags.
And those who later ask,"Please, can you help me hold one takeaway?"
Experience is the best teacher.
I packed small chops.
Packed drinks.
Packed souvenirs.
Packed anything that wasn't nailed to the ground.
My husband kept giving me that look.
I ignored him professionally.
When it was time to leave, Uber prices had entered another dimension.
"My dear, let's just enter danfo," my husband suggested.
I stared at him.
"Which danfo exactly?"
"The one that allows passengers to board with a live goat?"
"What if the conductor forgets to stop at our bus stop because he's arguing with another passenger? Will we abandon our goat?"
At this point, I'd already mentally renamed the goat.
It was family.
Thankfully, one of my husband's friends gave us a lift and dropped us right in front of our house.
We tied our new family member behind our bungalow.
Every morning, I faithfully fed it grass.
I even recruited one Mallam down the street as the official Minister of Grass Supply.
The goat flourished.
Six months later, it had become impressively fat.
Every time I looked at it, all I could see was pepper soup.
Rich.
Thick.
Spicy.
The kind that clears your sins and your sinuses simultaneously.
Then one Friday evening, my husband came home with wonderful news.
"I've been promoted!"
Branch Manager!
I hugged him.
Congratulated him.
Then quietly looked at the goat.
Celebration menu detected.
Saturday morning, I arranged with the Mallam to help us slaughter it because my husband cannot stand the sight of blood.
Simple.
Or so I thought.
The moment I entered the backyard, the goat slowly turned its head.
Its eyes...
Ha!
Its eyes had become blood red.
Not ordinary red.
The kind of red you see in Nollywood films just before the possessed person starts levitating.
Before I could process what was happening...
The goat lowered its head...
Grunted...
And charged.
Jesus!!!
I escaped by the mercy of God and the speed I didn't know I still possessed.
The Mallam came.
The goat charged at him too.
The Mallam disappeared faster than lightning.
My husband and I looked at each other.
Then we both looked at the goat.
The goat looked back at us with the confidence of a recalcitrant tenant
It became painfully obvious.
This goat had held an emergency meeting.
And the resolution was unanimous.
"Nobody is drinking pepper soup today or anytime soon."
About The Writer
This Piece Was Selected by Lergon Parris
"One of the first things that jumped out at me when I read The Owambe Goat That Refused to Become Pepper Soup was how authentic it was. The story is simple, yet complex in its dance with words and literary style. A believable picture was painted with the various expressions, and while some of them were riveted to cultural elements that I was not familiar with, I was still able to follow with context and enjoy. Wonderfully written.
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