Bean cakes

It was the first time in seven years I was going to see my grandma. I could remember the last time I saw her vividly, it was almost like yesterday. I could still see her move over the kitchen with that treacherous spoon of hers. Oh that spoon! It was the disciplinary spoon. Make one wrong move and then you have a spank on your head, your hands, your back, even your buttocks; basically whatever part was available was where the spoon landed. It was terrible to break one of her precious dishes. I had broken one a number of times, but there was this was one, one that I know she had treasured. It was one of the memories I had with grandma I could never really forget. I always loved to be the kitchen assistant. Mom was always at work, same with dad…. I never get to see him anyways even on holidays for he was a reporter. I was left most of the time with grandma and my little sister Mary, and then she’d make us these awesome bean cakes. It was a local delicacy mom never had the time to make for us, but always grandma did. She’d have me soak the beans in hot water making it soft for grinding, and then add all these crazy ingredients to it. I always messed up the kitchen with the palm oil. It was on one of these kitchen lessons I had broken her precious plate. I had expected the usual spanking. I shut my eyes, crunching in anticipation of a hit from the Infamous spoon. But then grandma just stayed and stared, she stared long at the pieces of the shattered dish.

 “I and your grandfather ate from that plate for years," she had said. “Throw the pieces away.” she instructed before tying off the last bean cake and leaving it to bake in our makeshift oven. I couldn’t forget that day nor the memories. I wondered why I never got a spanking from her after breaking something so precious. 

“We are almost at the hospital." Mom announced. I had been caught in my thoughts and had not taken cognizance of the happenings around me. Mom was dressed for work as usual in her prim suit and that her awful glasses. She was an accountant for a microfinance bank. All her life was about numbers, how much supplies was left in the store; how many bills were left unpaid, how little was left in the family account and most importantly how much little time dad spends with us. It was a classic line from mom. She complained about it everytime dad was around, breakfast or dinner, Family meetings or in the car. She never missed an avenue to vent her frustration at his job and this pulled father further away from us. Now, we get to see him only on Sundays and mom's new complaint was why he wasn’t accompaning us to church. 

“Bola, you know how important it is for me, I can’t be in two places at once. I can’t care for you, your sister, your father, the home my job, the bills still care for grandma at the same time” she said while glancing at her wrist watch.

“You are late for work, I know all these” 

“Good, just keep her company for a short while, I don’t want her all alone”

Mom ran her hands through my hair straightening a loose Cornrow.

“You should get your hair made over the weekend “ mom said with a weak smile before giving me some cash to buy whatever caught my fancy.  

“Keep your phone alive.” she warned before leaving.

When I stepped into grandma’s ward, she was already awake. She sat upright with a tiny tea cup in her hands. She had changed. Her hair had thinned and were a bright silver. She had shrunk a whole lot from old age and the lines on her skin had creased a great deal. I was surprised to see her seated upright. Mom had said she was terrible ill. I had hoped she would sleep all through the time I was here and then I’ll have time for my self and my phone before mother arrives to pick me up in the evening . This was a disaster. 

“Good morning grandma” I greeted with a smile, stooping with both knees to the ground as every well trained child should .

“Bola." she called. Although her attention was fixed at me, but her eyes were else where. She looked disoriented sort of and when she dropped the mug in her hands, she spilled the liquid in it. Why did mom withhold this information from me? Why didn’t she tell me grandma had lost her sight? Now I had to care for a sick, blind old lady. It was not what I signed up for. 

“Iya re nko?” How is your mother? she had asked in our local dialect. She also proceeded to ask about father, my Mary and a whole lot of things. Mom had grandma transfered from the village straight to the hospital, two days ago. It was the first time I was seeing her since she was transferred. I only agreed to this because mom decided to pay me for the service. Mary would join me tomorrow, so I’ll be getting a half pay. 

Grandma didn’t talk much afterwards, she slept a great deal and didn’t even stir when the doctor came to check up on her. This left me to my devices, I was on the phone all the time with this boy I recently got introduced to. He was cute. I had never had a boyfriend at fifteen, with the connection we were having over the phone, I might have one before Christmas. 

Now he was telling me about how beautiful I had looked the last time we had seen each other, his compliment brought silent smiles to my face. I’m hadn’t realized grandma had awoken. 

“Do you know what I regret most in my life? “ she had asked out of the blue. I was irritated, grandma chose the wrong time to be awake. I was having a very important conversation with the my potential boyfriend and then grandma chooses to interrupt with some bizarre questions. 

“No, I don’t, how can I know “ I replied stealthy. Like I cared.

She just smiled in the fashion of old ladies, shaking her head slowly. 

“Help me with that bible over there, and open to Ecclesiastes 3”

I rolled my eyes as I went to fetch the Bible, not another Sunday school, I cringed inwardly. Looking after this old lady was more chore than it had posed to be. She ought to be on her bed, asking me to pass a napkin or a mug and not preparing for a sermon! 

“Read to me.“ she instructed with her now frail voice. 

And then I read it all untill she stopped me at the 11th verse. 

“Now do you understand? “ she asked. 

“Understand what?" I questioned in bemusement .

“What I regret, the most." she was silent for a long time, a very long time. She just stared at the wall, although I know she could not see the wall, but her mind was seeing years behind. Years I had no knowledge of

“I regret not doing the right things at the right time” she said finally. 

“So you mean there’s a time to do something and a time not to do anything “ I asked sarcastically, just trying to imitate the verse I had just read. 

“Yes, yes more like it. I regret not doing anything when I should have done something, and then doing something when I shouldn’t have done anything “ she said. 

I was beginning to understand, it was a syndrome with old people, it happens when they begin to miss their youth and the vigor that came with it. It happens to them when they realize they had little time left. I was not new to this. 

“You miss your youth?” I asked just to let her know I understood and she could just stop the chatter. 

“No, not my youth, but I missed the things I should have done with them” This was new and I listened. 

“Now I can hardly read without you helping me out, I know it’s a burden, but there was a time I could see, and do things all by myself, but those times I chased the things that were not important. I chose to rest when it was not yet time to. Now all I do all day is to lay down and sleep.” she laughed a laugh, but it wasn’t a merry laugh. This laugh had an odd pitch to it; it was a bitter laugh. 

“You know I should have forgiven your grandfather a long time ago, he had hurt me terribly cheating on me with some young intern at his place of work. I let that mistake eat deep into our marriage. I never did forgive him till he was down with diabetes and now he is gone. I didn’t forgive him at the right time and I had lost years of my marriage. “ 

“You regret that” I say just to keep the conversation going. 

"Yes I do” she replied slowly. 

“ I regret not opening my own line of local confectionaries , not doing the things I loved to do.” I remembered grandma’s bean cake. I remembered how messy I’d make the kitchen after spilling the floor with palm oil. I still remembered that old dish I broke. 

“Why didn’t you ever spank me that day, that day I broke your precious dish?” I ask interrupting her.

"What day? Which dish? “ she asked. From her blank expression I knew she remembered nothing.

“The one you had with grand father “ I supplied. Then she smiled.

"It didn’t matter no more my dear, what was broken was broken. It was an old memory that made the plate precious, but then I was building a beautiful memory with you and your sister. Spanking you for a dish that was already broken would ruin the beautiful memory we were creating “

I said nothing, I had never expected that answer. 

“Then why didn’t you go ahead… .Open the restaurant? “ I asked. 

“ I... I just felt there was time, enough time but the days turned into years. It’s subtle it’s gentle. You never see it coming.– You know your mother loves to paint” she said after a while. I never knew that, I had never seen my mom paint, although I must say, she was very good with colours. 

“She’d paint me and sometimes your grandfather, although she did a whole of painting of me. But your grandfather thought it right that she go on and be an accountant. Art was just a hobby. I should have said something, but I was quiet. Now look at your mother….. .she works like a slave, she hardly has time for anyone and vents her frustration on your poor father. I don’t blame her, I did the same to your grandfather, reminding him every second we spent together of what he did long ago with that young intern."

“Why are you telling me all these now?” I asked.

“It’s too late for me, but not for you my sweetheart. Its 2020, you still have years ahead of you. Your life is not filled with so much mistakes, you can make the right choices now” she said.

“what choices?” I scoffed. 

“…..choices like staying clear of that boy you’ve been on the phone with for the best part of the day”

“How could you?...... I thought you were… …”

“Blind “ grandma supplied. “ I may be blind but not deaf, maybe not yet” she said as she chortled. 

Then I understood, I had thought she was asleep when I made my calls with Jude. 

“Jude has no plans for you now, maybe in the future who knows? But not now, now he’ll just give you pain, and cause a whole lot of strain with your parents especially your mother. You still have your whole life ahead of you. A life that would be filled with loves you can ever imagine.” She finished. 

“so it's all about this grandma” I say after all. 

"A time to love, and a time to hate. " she replied.

#

"Why are you up so early? “ Mary asked as she stepped in to the kitchen yawning loudly. Wild creature. I had woken quite early this morning, something grandma had said had troubled me over the night. No, it was not about Jude, but about the restaurant she never had. I wanted to surprise her with a treat she had always made for I and Mary when we were younger—bean cakes. 

I had soaked the beans in hot water and blended then to a soft pulp. I added the seasonings, fish stock, boiled eggs, and oh! The messy palm oil. 

“I’m making bean cakes for grandma” I say to her, while she watched me in awe. 

“I’m not going to that hospital with you.” she said after helping me remove the already baked bean cake. It was sizzling hot and the aroma filled the kitchen. Mom had left for work that morning, leaving I and Mary home. 

“It’s moms instructions ,” I continued “Besides I can’t leave you all alone." I admitted.

“Am thirteen, I am fine by myself!” she announced with puerile pride. 

“We are not having this conversation,” I say. “ Do help me with the tasting of the bean cake”. I had unwrapped one of them. Its consistency was exact, the palm oil gave it a reddish brightness and the fish stock could be perceived in the aroma. It must be a master piece. I made it just the way I had always watched grandma do. I wanted to give her something that would bring good old memories of the little things she had done right. 

I watched Mary has she took a spoon, breaking the soft pulp into half. Her face changed from that of delight turning into one of distaste.

“What is it? How does it taste ?” I asked with uncertainty, her reaction after her first bite was not at all encouraging. 

“It’s seems you left the beans for too long in the blender–it had began to sour.”