Dolu could not cook to save her own life. Oh, she could boil eggs and toast bread but that was the extent of her culinary skills. And as God would have it, she heard Briggs saying there should be a love feast thingy, with only home-cooked food.
Briggs was not male ooh. Just a regular female who never shut up about her culinary prowess. Seriously, you can cook, so should we now die? Haba!
Now Dolu was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She could either cook something or not go for the love feast and have Briggs tell everyone she had no cooking skills. She would probably blow it up by saying that Dolu had no skills in wifely duties as if cooking made a wife.
For the third time, she poured the contents of the pot of what was supposed to be jollof rice in the trash can. It neither looked nor tasted like jollof rice and the rice wasn’t cooked. It was a bit raw. And why did it look like Acha pudding?
Dolu watched the Youtube video for the upteenth time and shook her head. As a young girl of 25, she had two degrees, in civil engineering and architecture. She was a cetified computer wizard who made her own clothes and did her own hair, natural and weaves. She could handle any fixtures in a home and knew how to work under the hood of her car.
But her major flaw was coming out Nigerian and because she couldn’t cook, some considered her a little less than useless. Where did one start to protest such injustice from? With a resigned sigh, she picked her phone and dialled her elder brother’s number. There was a time for everything. Maybe this was a good time to start learning how to cook.