What You Need To Know About Parties In Ibadan

parties in Ibadan

One of the great things about parties in Ibadan is you have a chance to eat in the various combinations that you are not likely to in your own house – if you have my kind of bank account balance, that is.

As a matter of fact, you can eat as many times as possible, if you know the owners of the party or if you don’t but you are at least wearing the asoebi.
If not the whole asoebi then maybe a fraction of it, the gele or the fila.

As a further matter of fact, if you waited until such time when the party has run out of meat, you can actually haul jollof to your house in poly bags. Just tell the caterers you have dogs at home, three of them, “bingo, lingo and jimbo.”
And that the three of them dogs just love jollof rice so much. So can they please extend some of their graciousness and fill the bags up, yeah, right there. Fill it up. Thanks, much obliged.

Oh, there’s leftover moimoi? Add that too.

At this gathering here I have just being served vegetable soup, with ponmo, abodi, ranbadout, and another one that looks like that gele the lady in front of me is wearing; you know the ones that are tied round and round like rings of clothing.

Only me alone, 4 different types of meats and a most regularly shaped mound of semo.


You know that at home you can hardly do that, that is, serve only yourself four meat in one meal. As a matter of fact, you would not likely do that to yourself.
Its got dire consequences. How many meats are in that pot, Pat, count it.

“Six meats.” Pat says.
“Serve two,” I say.

She serves two, we eat it and we did not die. When she’s gone home to her place I may just wake up at 1am in the night and start thinking about the meats. Then I would just sleepwalk past the kitchen on my jolly way to the bathroom, I pee, shake it off, flush it down and when I sleepwalk back I would take a cursory look at the pot sitting on the stove.
Then a voice would say to me in my ear, “won’t you like to go look at what’s in the pot of soup?”

Then I would shake my head. But the voice would keep at me. Now it would say, “open it, take one meat, bite it.”
The instruction would sound so simple in my ears. As simple as ABC. But I’m a righteous man, a faithful man, a man of my word.
“No!” I would say.
Then like the devil said to the Lord, the voice would say, “If you know sey the food na your own, oya eat one meat.”

Then I would open the pot, I would look at the meat and my heart would lurch, ‘O what loveliness!’, I would declare.

Before I know it I’m chewing with my eyes closed, it would be so juicy, and sinfully sweet.
O God, fried meat.
In the morning I would call Pat to tell her I committed a felony.
“I have sinned, m’lady.”
“What this time?” She would ask.
“I have eaten our meat.”
“Okay. I, therefore, break up with you.”
“Okay.” I would reply, then we’d go on and talk about how the day is going to go.


Now I have finished eating the meat, the vegetables and the semo.
There’s a pool of soup left. Jesus once said we should avoid wasting food. But how do I tip this plate up and drink this soup without seeming like a bushman here?
And then look at all these fine ladies here, they are going to think that I’m not the man after all.

But I’m looking at them and thinking too that, I’m as real as real can get, meeeenh.
How about I take this plate, turn it up like a bottle and let all that deliciousness flow, huh?
And let me see all of you take off all those wigs, eyelashes, high heels, nails and let’s see who keeps it real?

About the writer -  Samuel Otareri

Samuel is a creative writer who likes to talk about love and social issues using his creative writing to trigger emotional consciousness in Nigerians. A lover of his woman, Samuel believes in using one's creativity as a tool for social change.

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