She does not like eggs, one more thing to pull her legs with, I think to myself as I set the plate of eggs and pancakes on the dining table.
Then it hit me afresh. I can’t.
Because she is gone, and she is never coming back.
I had prepared the eggs with milk, curry, powdered pepper, salt and sugar. It is an absolute delight. It has a syrupy taste to it and I know she will love it, and I am dying to prepare it for her. I had gotten a brainwave last night as I went to bed and decided to experiment and it had turned out well.
And she was the first person that came to mind. I know that if she tasted it, I could make her fall in love with fried eggs.
She hates eggs, all forms of it; the smell nauseated her and I had tried to convince her to like it but she had refused to budge. This delight however did not taste like egg nor smelt like one. She would have loved it, of that I am sure.
My joy is not full. In fact, with the thought of her, I have lost my appetite. I feel my stomach churn and revolt; no food is going to stay down, it warns me.
I sigh and drop the plate.
I don tire for this kind of love o, I think despondently. I have never had it this bad. I dream of her at night, think about her all day and now I am losing my appetite! This is becoming too much.
Even after my first major heartbreak, when my first love had walked out on me, I had not been much of an emotional wreck as I am turning into. I despise myself for being so weak. It isn’t like me, to allow anything to weigh me down. I just shove the negative feelings to the back of my mind and keep living. Allowing myself to feel pain would mean shutting down everything else, and I couldn’t afford that. I wonder why it is hard for me to do the same this time around.
I remember the first time she stayed the night at my place, and I had prepared breakfast for her. It was indomie noodles, the only food I had. I had been nervous and had wondered if she would like it – I wanted her to like it.
She is very choosy. She could buy a thousand naira worth of food and if she didn’t like it, won’t eat it, preferring rather to go hungry. It always bothered me, and she has refused to change what I considered a very bad habit.
I often chided her. ‘What if you were stuck in a place and the only food available isn’t up to your standard and there are no alternatives, would you choose to starve?’ she would just shrug and smile mischievously. ‘Just leave me alone with my annoying habit’ the smile said, and I would shake my head and she would laugh. She laughed a lot and I really miss that about her.
On that day, after much fretting, I set the plate of noodles before her, and watched her take the first bite. I stood watching her face; the truth was always on her face, even if her mouth said otherwise. I had come to know that about her. I knew she would lie if she didn’t like the food, she had done it before and when I had found out, it had really hurt.
Her eyes widened in delight. She loved it. ‘Wow! You make the best noodles in the whole world’ she gushed and I blushed. I don’t know why it mattered so much that she liked my cooking but it did and I felt good that she liked it.
‘Tell me how you made it?’ she inquired.
‘Well, I added tin tomato and used only half the sauce provided and then add extra powdered pepper to it. Then I added corned beef too’ I replied, feeling like a super chef.
‘It’s really good’ she said between mouthfuls.
In less than five minutes she was through, and she had cleaned the plate. That was the final confirmation that she really liked the meal — When she likes a meal, she eats really fast and cleans the plate.
I smile at the memory. It warmed my heart and restored my appetite. I pick up the plate of pancakes and my special eggs and eat slowly, savoring each mouthful.
I imagine feeding her, the look of delight and pleasure that would light up her features at not only eating fried eggs but actually liking it. It would have been priceless, that look. But I would never get to see it.
I remember her asking me to make my special noodles for her anytime she came over to my place. When I asked her to make it herself, she refused ‘it is your special noodles, and it is the best noodles in the whole wide world’ she had said matter-of-factly ‘and I want you to make it for me, I don’t want to make it for myself’
Those words were one of the sweetest words she ever said to me. It had made me feel special and unique. I wasn’t the best of cooks but to her, I could prepare a special delicacy she could enjoy, a treat I could make her, and spoil her with. Something I had that she wanted and would never get enough of. I think I fell in love with her that day all over again.
I scoop the last of the eggs into my mouth and wish that I would get to make them for her, and get her to love it and always beg me to make them for her, as many times as she wanted them.