The New Year Feast We Didn’t Cook

My face lit up with joy and a wide grin revealing my missing dentition as I gazed up at the tall figure before me. He held a tray balanced with three plates, each covered with another plate. With a warm smile, he handed me one of the plates.

I scurried off excitedly to join my siblings as we gathered around the small table in our living room. The atmosphere was filled with the aroma of jollof rice, fried chicken, and freshly baked snacks that our neighbors had generously brought. It was New Year’s Day, and like every other family on our street, we basked in the communal spirit of sharing.

Unlike the families who could afford to slaughter a chicken or cook lavish meals, ours relied on the kindness of others. My mother would say, “New Year is for sharing, that’s how God provides.” True to her words, plates of food arrived at our doorstep from different households throughout the day with steaming rice, spicy stew, grilled meats, and even sugary puff-puffs.

With the biggest smile on my face, I placed the plate down, and we began counting the meats.

“One, tuu, tiri, for, fife, sis, se’vun, eight…” My youngest sister giggled as she recited the numbers aloud in her childish accent, pointing at each piece of meat in the small pot. My other siblings chuckled along, their eyes wide with anticipation. The meats included chicken drumsticks, turkey wings, and even a few chunks of beef.

Unable to resist, I dipped my index finger into the pot and scooped some of the spicy sauce off a piece of chicken. A zing of pepper danced on my tongue, which made me squeal with delight, though a stray slice of onion slipped off and landed on the table.

“Victoria!” my mother’s stern voice echoed from the kitchen, freezing me mid-lick. She stormed in, her brows knitted tightly.

“Who told you to start eating the meats?” she demanded, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “But Mama… it’s New Year, and we’ve never had so much meat before. Please let us eat some now,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mama shook her head, her voice softening but remaining firm. “No, my dear. These meats are for later. We’ll use them to cook soup later before the week ends. Do you know how hard it is to afford meat these days? Go and eat the rice instead.”

“But it’s Wednesday, Mama,” I whined. “I thought New Year meant we could finally eat meat.”

Mama smiled faintly and knelt to my level. “It does, Victoria. And we’ll enjoy some today, but not all. You have to learn to save for tomorrow.” She reached out, wiping a smudge of pepper from my cheek. “Go now and share the rice with your siblings.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed, though my heart sank a little. Still, the aroma of the jollof rice called to me, and I couldn’t deny its allure. I scooped a large portion onto my plate and did the same for my siblings, and soon, the room was filled with the happy clatter of spoons against plates.

As we ate, I silently made a wish that one day, we would have enough to celebrate New Year without rationing. That thought lingered in my mind as I chewed a spoonful of jollof rice, savoring every grain and the flavor from the spice. It was the kind of meal I only dreamed of most days. On an ordinary day, usually, rice at home came plain, boiled with salt, and sometimes with a few slices of onion fried in vegetable oil for taste. No stew. No meat. No fish. Just plain rice.

I sighed, glancing at the little pot where Mama had hidden the meats, already planning how to stretch them for the coming week. It wasn’t her fault, she worked hard as a cleaner, doing her best to provide for us. But life was hard for people like us and yes we are just families who lived day to day, scraping by, praying that things would get better.

As I looked at the golden grains of jollof on my plate, I thought about Tolu and Seyi at school. They always teased me during lunch, pointing at my plain white rice and whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, “Look, it’s rice and onion stew again!” The laughter that followed made me sink deeper into my seat, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

I hated being the center of their jokes. But what hurt the most was knowing they were right. While they opened their lunch boxes to reveal bowls of steaming jollof rice, fried plantains, and big chunks of chicken, my plate sat there, dry and plain. No stew, no egg, no fish. Not even a small piece of meat.

But yesterday was different. Yesterday, I finally had jollof rice and meat. Real meat. Not just one kind, but chicken and turkey. For a brief moment, I imagined packing some of the food into my school bag and taking it to school when the holidays were over. I wanted to see the look on Tolu and Seyi’s faces when I opened my container and revealed the feast inside.

“Seyi, Tolu,” I imagined myself saying confidently, “this is what I eat every day at home.” Their jaws would drop, and for once, I would be the one laughing.

But even as I dreamed, reality set in. Mama would never let me take the food to school. She believed in saving the best for family dinners at home, not for “showing off” outside. And deep down, I knew I couldn’t blame her. If we wasted food trying to prove a point, what would we eat tomorrow?

I sighed again and pushed the thought away. I couldn’t change who we were. We weren’t like Tolu and Seyi, whose parents drove fancy cars and sent them to school with crisp notes for snacks. We were the family that depended on the kindness of neighbors to celebrate New Year.

As I finished my plate of jollof rice, I heard another knock on the door and it was another neighbour who brought food again. I couldn’t help but smile. Yesterday was a good day. Yesterday, I felt like a queen in my little world. And maybe, just maybe, one day my dream of a life where we had more than enough wouldn’t feel so far away. But for now, I will bask in the anticipation of when Mama would prepare the soup with those meats.