Naija Handwork

Every Naija is a food handler; from the infants on a breast milk diet to the grandees demolishing mountains of Tuo with aplomb. Those who know what they want don’t waste time answering questions in a buka.

‘Swallow or non- swallow?’ They blink their answer.

‘Cutlery or hand?’  They laugh and walk over to their usual seat saying, ‘before nko?’ without looking back. Mamaput should know by now is what they infer.

The interaction between the chef and the hungry is like one of those rites you watch on discovery channel. People behave differently when they smell the aroma of food. There is a good reason to take people who you want to do business with out for a meal first. While it is good to see people under pressure, it is also more important to see them under pleasure.

Some Naija people, guys especially, take off their jackets, undo the cuff links and the belt in anticipation of ‘in coming’ pounded yam and ogbono soup. They get very universally receptive to all pleasures once the mouth is assured of traffic. Pure Blood Group AB abi?

In life the digital ones would go for street lights made of steel and plastic but the hard core natural ones will direct traffic with their hands. The question is, why direct food into your mouth with your hands when the clean utensils are present?

I must have been about six when we visited a family friend and found them eating eba and soup with their cutlery. I recall laughing at the incredulous activity with my sister. It did not stop there for we went home and told everyone what we had seen.

People commented on how the food would not taste nice and wondered what craziness had possessed these poor ajebutas.   A bit silly in retrospect but that was how I was then. This premise of food not tasting as well when eaten with a fork and knife is akin to saying a Bentley would not drive well across a junction if it was directed by traffic lights as opposed to a traffic warden standing in the middle of the road waving people along with his hands.

It could be said however that eating with the hand has advantages as the fingers are indeed sensitive probes. The texture of the food is felt, the temperature of the food can be ascertained and there is no risk of sneezing and stabbing your lips with a fork. 

I however changed from a garri handler ie eating with my fingers to a fork and knife guy as time progressed. Not for any particular reasons other than choice and not wanting soup on my fingers. Ironically that is the same reason some give for wanting to eat with their hands; the satisfaction derived from licking soup off the fingers.

Growing up, Garri was a friend. One seems to always be involved in a warm hand shake with that Cassava product most days. Eba even doubled up as paper glue when kites were being constructed or postage stamps refused to adhere to envelopes.  We change as we grow. I think surgical training must have reset my brain. In theatre you ‘scrubbed up’ before every case, and brushed away at the hands making sure no inch of skin was missed. The nails were kept short and had extra attention under the running water. Once the hands are dried the next stop is the table where the patient waits unconscious for your clean hands and sharp instruments.

That knowledge that bacteria lie everywhere gets drummed in. Your hands touch nothing else once washed and gloved. Over time one began to approach every table with that same routine; thoroughly washed hands that held clean instruments. Even though the plate of food belongs to an individual, they are still responsible for making sure that the plate always has some semblance of civility during the course of the meal so as not to repulse others. Deft and gentle moments would make sure the food on the plate always looks like the left overs of a human being and not a wolf.

Unfortunately there seems to be little dining etiquettes in Naija dinner table culture especially with ‘swallows’. It’s just wash hand, bless the food and then speedily subject the food to a public execution.

The washing of the hand varies. I have seen people submerge their right hand (always the right) in a bowl of water like a kind of prompt water baptism and rush on to eat. The bacteria might become wet by this manoeuvre but they remains on the hand.

Watching some eat their pounded yam and ogbono can be comical so long as you do not have the displeasure of eating opposite them. Once the hand is baptised, it approaches the mould of pounded yam usually from the south east position and a corner is pinched off, somewhat like the then annexation of the Bakassi peninsular. The neck is tilted to the left during this action.

Then the lump of poundo is then moulded in the palm till perfectly spherical and suddenly indented in its equator without splitting it into two (like an ancient hour glass). Now comes the bit which should be done only at home. The pounded yam approaches the soup with the food handler leaning forward like he needs to see the soup but is long sighted.  Just before the pounded yam strikes the surface of the soup the mouth slowly opens with the tongue stuck out as if the tip of the tongue is aiming for the chin. By the time the pounded yam is smeared in soup and upward bound the mouth is widens up to six times the diameter of the bolus of pounded yam. Rather than swallowing the stuff and save everybody clear views of the excessive salivation, tonsils and uvula, the food handler starts to rotate the slimy bolus of food to disentangle it from dripping soup that may stain the shirt. The mouth remains wide still. Next the mouth is brought closer to the hand and young children begin to fear they might get swallowed. The food goes in but this is not the end. The sound effects start. Licking, sucking and wanton exhibitions of relish followed by an exclamation of how ‘this soup sweet o!’

The remaining half of the pounded yam soon dives in for soup and the cycle continues. It is a free world but why do this outside private residences. Some meticulous people eat with their hands and they are like a noiseless Bentley moving beautifully and irritating nobody.

Others are in a feeding frenzy, even taking their first cut of the pounded yam from the summit and staining the rest of the mountain with soup. (Now who climbs a mountain starting at the top?) With soup dripping down their lips and down to the elbows they have the temerity to tell you with a mouth full of half masticated meat blended with ogbono, ‘you meet me well bros, come chop’.

The answer is standard in Nigeria, ‘thanks bros, but I just had something’