Chapter 4: The Forbidden Feast

Second Uncle had been a thief since he was small, no other skill, but his cooking sharp from years of stealing neighbour’s chicken and goat.

He always boasted that he could turn even vulture into something tasty. In the compound, old women still tell stories of how he once stole a ram during New Yam Festival, cooked it in the forest, and served it as “bush meat” to the chiefs.

He shaved the meat, chopped bone, sliced tendon, cracked marrow—threw everything into boiling water, not even a pinch of salt, and soon a strange aroma filled the air.

He stirred the pot with his old wooden spoon, humming a tune. The air was thick with the smell—rich and wild. Some said it smelled like dry season fire, others like riverbank herbs. The pot boiled over, hissing like an angry snake. The aroma strong pass nkwobi and isi-ewu put together.

That smell woke up everybody’s hunger.

Children licked their lips, old men forgot their aches, and even Grandmother, who never liked pepper soup, sniffed the air with longing.

People’s eyes opened wide, and you could hear them swallowing.

A small boy in the corner let out a loud gulp, which set the adults laughing. The air buzzed with excitement and want.

“I dey smell the goat meat my mama dey cook that year.”

One woman fanned herself, eyes dreamy. “E get as e be! Na the real thing.”

“Goat meat? Na the city restaurant’s peppered beef!”

A young man who once did okada work in Lagos shouted, “Abeg, pass am come! Na the smell of money!”

“You villagers never chop correct food—this one na asun from big hotel. Rich, sweet, correct!” said Chief Bako, forming big man.

He pinched his nose, talking through his teeth, “For London, dem no get soup reach this one. If you no get money, just dey look.”

Me, I never chop anything reach this level. Even for festival, na half bowl of chicken pepper soup. This aroma pass am ten times.

My stomach rumbled so loud my neighbours laughed. My stomach rumbled like thunder before new yam festival. Hunger made my eyes water. I prayed for just small taste.

One pot of soup, hundred kinds of sweet smell. People just dey craze.

Someone even tried to bribe Second Uncle with a new wrapper, another offered to wash his clothes for a week—all for one bowl.

People wey just dey look before now rushed forward, waving money for Second Uncle.

They pushed and shoved, shouting, “Na my turn! I get money pass am!”

“I want one bowl!”

“Shift! I go pay extra—give me two!”

They flashed crisp notes, some even offered coins. The whole yard turned to market.

“Second Okoye, Uncle Ifeanyi, Baba—hold one for me, I go pay double!”

People called out their names, hoping Second Uncle would remember their loyalty.

Grandmother tried to stop them but couldn’t. She just dragged me aside, her skinny fingers like eagle claws pinching my flesh.

She hissed, “Dem no get fear! Chidinma, stay away. If you chop that thing, even river goddess no fit save you.”

“Chidinma, listen—no matter what, you must not chop that spirit meat.”

Her eyes bored into mine, sharp and unblinking. “Promise me!”

I nodded, still confused.

My mouth watered, but I nodded quickly. I’d seen the way her hand trembled. Deep in my heart, something told me to obey.