-Two Realms (Romance Thriller)

Read Story: Two Realms (Romance Thriller)… Part 23

A story written by INEGBENOISE OSEODION OSAGIE. (07068221839, 08093828575, [email protected])

Those abdominal muscles were a whole lot like Ryan Gosling’s.
Two framed pictures of him in embroidered attire and a red cap hung at a high corner, making him look like the young actors in the local movies who played old men roles when acting in remote settings. She walked closer to the pictures. Blue clouds made by graphical effect surrounded him and a long quill hung at his cap. He looked good in the attire, as he did in suits. She regretted not being tall enough to bring the picture down and hold it close, see every detail she had not been opportune to see in the physical him. His eyes looked down to her, making her hate it was only a picture. She made for the electronic set and turned on the TV. A sound boomed from the side speakers, and it almost killed her ears before she could reach the remote control.
Her slice of bread got finished, and her stomach was full. Though full, her hunger remained, another kind of hunger, bigger than what two slices or even a loaf of bread could cure. The pudding in the fridge, even if would do nothing, might keep her busy, but a kitchen and a microwave were needed. Many Nigerians had kitchens next to the dining. She prayed Jide wasn’t an exception. He wasn’t.
She slotted the pudding into the microwave for a light heat, praying that was what it needed. After heating a while, she extracted it and tried believing the real thing was a soft, brown chunk; otherwise she was about confirming the country’s conviction that white teens were useless in the kitchen.
Few minutes passed before Jide’s thudding steps came down the stairs, and with it, came streaks of lemon. A freshened-up Jide entered the Kitchen, now in a polo shirt and three-quarter shorts that revealed the ends of his hairy, ebony legs and pointed toes.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” His voice came up.
“The bread wasn’t enough to quench my hunger, so I thought of heating the pudding.”
“The moimoi?” His pronunciation of the moimoi and the manner his lips curved on saying it made her regret not to have called it that.
“Yes, the moimoi,” she said.
“You should have waited. I would have helped you do it.”
“White girls are not spoilt girls. I don’t know how this is eaten. Your job is to teach me. But first, hope I prepared it well. I can boast of being able to cook anything. Anything except this.”
“You prepared it well,” he said without giving it eyes. God should please still make those his words after his first bite. He opened a cabinet and roved eyes through it. “I normally use the moimoi to supplement my main meal, especially rice, but it can be served alone, or with some custard.”
“How is it eaten?”
He turned to her and she prayed the grimace in her face was invisible. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing bad about it. It’s a normal meal. We’ll eat it with custard. Custard works with everything. Everyone eats it.”
“I wasn’t saying…”
“I always forget to buy these items. I pray I still have some.” He drew out a jar of custard from the cabinet and shook it.
“Let me prepare it.” She attempted seizing it from his hands, but he held it tight.
“No, no, you’ve already—”
“You know what I hate? You treating me like a guest. Come on, leave it, I’ll prepare the porridge.” She took it from him and spooned some into a bowl, added a little warm water from a keg and stirred to a uniform liquid. Jide put the kettle on the stove.
“You heated the moimoi a little too much,” Jide said on taking a bite.
She gritted her teeth “I figured. But it isn’t too bad. Is it?”
“For a first timer, no.”
Jide poured in some sugar into the custard. “Is the water boiled?”
She removed the kettle’s lid. Small bubbles had begun bursting. “I think this will do.” Steadily, she poured the water from the kettle into the bowl, stirring the custard as it thickened. When done, she microwaved it for a short time and garnished with milk.
“Did you first cook the pudding yourself, sorry the moimoi?”
“No. I buy from a woman across. She makes some special ones for me. Mine is different from the common made. I like vegetables in mine. I suppose I’m the only Nigerian who goes for that.”
“It’s done.” She touched her tongue’s tip with the stirrer and licked the custard that clung to the tongue.
At the dining, Jide took a first bite. He spooned out a piece and chewed without effort. On doing same, she was surprised her teeth had something to chew. It wasn’t as soft as it seemed. Beans pudding, Jide called it, but her tongue couldn’t find any taste of beans.
The most difficult task in the world became eating and trying to resist staring at the sitting room wall, those photos of him hung up the wall.

To Be Continued….

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