Lost in my wife's kitchen

(During one of those relax-the-body-with-laugh moments, a big bros told me how he is constantly confused in the kitchen.)

HIS STORY: It is not a big affair. But each time I enter the kitchen, it feels like attempting to be 22 players in Akpabio's stadium.

“Dirty plates must go to this side of the sink,” Madam told me once. “Remnants must be scraped off and put here because they have to be kept dry if I can't wash immediately….” blah, blah, blah.

This was after I had been weaned of leaving plates were I ate. Now, can't these bloody plates stay anywhere in the kitchen?

There is also a specific place and how to keep spoons so they won't fall or go behind the cabinet. The cups too must be positioned in a particular way to keep them dry and clean. And, God help me, I must rinse plate, spoon, cup before use!

There are, at least, three hands towels in that kitchen. One for the hands after handling anything, another to carry hot pots and pans, and one more for cleaning surfaces. There is another I must use after washing my hands once I come in every evening. (I swear, am harassed into washing my hands when I return from work).

Another towel is permanently on the floor. But there is mop somewhere na. One day I took the floor towel for the table top one. Oh! Don't ask me to relate the sermon I got.

Now, therefore, in addition to the many things a man have to worry about, how can I tell which towel is meant for where and at what time? The variety of colours do not help. So don't go there.

“But it is actually simple,” she says. Do women have a different concept of “simple?”

It so happened that certain occurrences whenever I take anything in that kitchen convince me that there is a conspiracy. If I take garri, rice, beans, soup, ANYTHING, some must drop somewhere in the kitchen.

When she enter like dis, “Must you waste food? Must anything you take get on the kitchen cabinet and floor?”

I tire. But I refused to give up sha. So I told her the gods must be fed. U for come here casting and binding!

The only time I had the kitchen to myself was when a rat sneaked in. She didn't come near her hallowed kitchen for two days. Common small rat o! I kept postponing the Second Civil War between me and the rat. When she threatened another kind of war entirely, I had to kill the rat while madam locked herself up in the master bedroom.

One day, I decided to do over sabi. I wanted to cook something for her. I ended up with burnt offerings—both the one I was warming up and the new food. It was a neighbour banging on the door that woke me up from sleep. I probably would have been part of the offering as the smoke coming from the kitchen rivalled Father Abraham’s after God provided alternative for Isaac.

That was when the Anti-Cooking Law was passed: “You only cook in that kitchen when I am at home.” Yes Ma, I concurred.

(At this point, my ribs were hurting badly. The laugher was attracting embarrassing looks from people around. I begged him to stop. Because he still appears lost in that kitchen.

My opinion is that every man is lost the wife's kitchen. No, not every man. I know some who actually embarrass their wives with their abilities in the kitchen. Me? I still be learner for marital affairs. May 5 years from now, I go get my story.)