Cold Noodles

I took a forkful of noodles and pushed it down with a glass of water, gulping it all at once. Father didn't raise his eyes from the newspaper, which he held over his plate of noodles. Mum with her patient, suffering eyes, looked over at me and asked if I was okay. I nodded slowly. None of us had any appetite for the food.

Sister Grace had offered to cook, and I was disappointed, so disappointed, that after all the years and fortune Father spent on her while she was in catering school, she still couldn't cook noodles properly. Or maybe she could cook, who knows? Maybe this was just her way of getting back at Father for sending her out of the house, when he found out she had had an abortion while in school.

It was extremely awkward and we all would have preferred to be elsewhere. Anywhere but at this table. Father sat solemnly at the head, with mum at his right hand side. Sister Grace sat beside her, slapping at the flies circling over her plate and mum's, completely ignoring Dad, and brother James sat at the other end, with a dollish-looking lady, who looked like she was willing the ground to open up and swallow her, sitting beside him. Brother James had been the one who called the meeting yesterday. I was at school but had to take the late night bus down home. One day of not sleeping in the hostel will not kill me, I told myself.

"I want to officially announce my intention of marrying Bisola."

Even before he mentioned her name, I already knew Father would be against the marriage. The lady looked okay. She was beautiful. Young. Sweet. Looking wife material. She also had "god-fearing" written all over her, and she was graceful enough to look shy. Only her name.

"Bisola? A Yoruba?" asked father.

"Oh God..." cried mum, "does it matter at all, Henry?"

Father placed his newspaper gently on the table, and took a forkful of noodles. He chewed on it for a while, shook his head and looked at Sister Grace. "What a disgrace you are."

"Oh please!" screamed mum. "Anywhere but here!"

"You spoilt them. Felicia, you spoilt this children rotten. Especially this one that cooked this disgrace of a food. Can you see it now?"

Everyone fell silent. Only the clinks of forks against the ceramic plates could be heard against the whirl of the ceiling fan.

"So dad," said brother James, "Bisola and I met when..."

"I don't want to hear it," he replied, "Bisola, I'm sorry my dear, but we don't accept Yorubas in this family."

"That's you, dad." Brother James' tone didn't rise. He looked father straight in the eyes, and held Bisola's hands as he spoke. Bisola stared at the floor. I wondered what fascinated her. Was it the way the black and white tiles interlocked, like a chessboard? Or was she really shy? Or very embarrassed by my father's behavior?

"Bisola and I are getting married, with or without your blessings."

"Okay." He said, and resumed his noodle-eating.

"Which school did you say you attended again, Bisola?"

It was sister Grace, trying to spite Father, I knew.

"Our Lady's Institute of Catering" she piped up. Her voice sounded like a child's.

"Oh, catering? Grace studied catering too."

"Oh mum..." Laughed sister Grace, "spare me that."

Bisola smiled in response. The awkwardness only grew thicker. I forced another forkful of noodles down my throat, and poured some more water for myself, from the glass jug. Some old habits never changed. Not even mum's habit of keeping all her glasses clean.

"We'll have the wedding on the last Saturday of next month," said brother James, "I've spoken with Bisola's parents."

"And they agreed? They agreed to let an Igbo man marry their daughter?"

"Why not?" asked brother James, "Dad, for Chrissakes, there are better things to consider. Tribe shouldn't be the issue here."

"Son..."

"Mum, please. Dad here is prejudiced against the Yorubas, probably because of something that happened decades before I was born. Something I have no idea of. Why then should I be deprived of my joy because of his unhappiness and unforgiving spirit?"

"Son..." begged mum.

"Mum, please..."

Father looked over at mum. She looked away, and forked noodles into her mouth. He knew right away that she had told us of how, many years ago, she cheated on him with the Yoruba man that came to hawk raw beef every Sunday. The affair had led to a pregnancy, which father had removed with his fists on the spot of her confession. The past is the past, yet old wounds are very hard to heal. And father kept peeling off the crust each time it healed. He would never bury the deep seated hate he had for the Yorubas, all because of that encounter.

But he was pained that she had told us the reason why. With mystery, he could coerce us into the fear of him, what he would say, what he would do. But with the knowledge of the reason for his behavior, there was no mystery, and we didn't need to fear him, or follow in his footsteps of hating the Yorubas.

"Have you forgotten that the Yorubas own that very newspaper you're holding, Dad? Check the editor's name. Look at the names of the columnists." continued brother James.

"James, please eat your food. It'll get cold." It was Bisola speaking up now. Her voice came out a little stronger, and I was forced to look at her.

Surprisingly, brother James obeyed. He took three mouthfuls, drank water, and faced father once more.

"Or aren't you aware that the Yorubas are your superiors at work? Who is your Minister? Your Governor? In fact, who helped you get this job, where you are today, who took you there?"

Once again, father looked at mum. She had told brother James of the Yoruba man that had helped father secure his job, many years ago. The man had long died, even before mum cheated. And during that time, father loved the Yorubas with so much passion as he hated them now.

"When did you say you're getting married?" asked dad, after a very long pause, and a deep, loud sigh.

"Next month. The last Saturday." replied brother James.

"I hope Grace will not be the one to cook on that day."

It was father's attempt at a joke, one of his rare attitudes. But nobody laughed. The plates were still half full with noodles, cold, bitter noodles.