Beyond the Bloodline
Episode 1
Life in the hostel was as chaotic as it was entertaining. Our dormitory, with its peeling paint and the faint smell of damp clothes, was a melting pot of personalities: the loud, the quiet, the drama queens, and, of course, the downright troublesome. I often wondered how I managed to survive in this madness.
Take my roommate Amaka, for example. She was loud, nosy, and had an uncanny ability to insert herself into every single conversation, whether invited or not. Then there was Chioma, who was a self-proclaimed chef. But the thing about Chioma’s cooking? It wasn’t just bad; it was a disaster waiting to happen. Every time she cooked, the whole room braced for impact.
It started that afternoon when Chioma burst into the room with a plastic bag full of ingredients.
“Ladies! Today’s menu is ofe akwu and rice,” she announced proudly, dumping everything on the table like she had just won the lottery.
Amaka groaned loudly. “Ah, Chioma, abeg, not today! That your oil dey run stomach like tap water. Please, spare us!”
Chioma rolled her eyes. “Haters will hate. But trust me, you’ll lick your fingers after this meal. Watch and learn!”
I watched too. Watched as she poured an ungodly amount of palm oil into the pot, added spices like she was mixing a magic potion, and stirred the concoction with so much confidence that it almost convinced me she knew what she was doing. Almost.
I was starving—really starving. My wallet was empty, and my stomach was louder than Amaka’s complaints. When Chioma finally announced that the food was ready, I didn’t hesitate.
Amaka, ever the wise one, sat down with a small portion of the rice and a separate bowl of red oil beside her. Chioma’s “cooking insurance,” she called it. She’d been burned too many times before.
“Chioma,” Amaka muttered under her breath, “if I no survive this meal, just know you’re paying for my hospital bill.”
Chioma cackled. “You people should stop insulting my food! Ngozi, at least you appreciate me, right?”
I nodded quickly, my hunger clouding my judgment. The first bite was… okay. The second bite was tolerable. By the third, I convinced myself I was enjoying it. But my stomach? My stomach was plotting revenge.
It hit me like a truck a few hours later. At first, it was a rumble, faint but persistent. Then came the cramps, sharp and unforgiving. Before I knew it, I was in the hostel bathroom, clutching my stomach and regretting every single bite.
From the hallway, I could hear Amaka’s voice, loud and unapologetic. “Ngozi don enter Chioma’s trap! I warned her! But hunger no dey hear word!”
Another voice chimed in, laughing. “Next time, she’ll carry her own red oil like the rest of us!”
I wanted to shout back, but I was too weak, stuck in a vicious cycle of purging and praying for deliverance. Hours passed, and I was still in the bathroom, sitting on cold tiles and feeling like my soul was slowly leaving my body.
When I finally emerged, my face was pale, and my legs wobbled like jelly. The room erupted in laughter the moment they saw me.
“Ah ah, Ngozi! You look like someone that saw a ghost!” Amaka teased, barely containing her amusement.
Chioma smirked, trying to hold onto her pride. “It wasn’t that bad, abi? You just have a weak system. My food is for the strong.”
I wanted to respond, but I was too tired. All I could do was collapse onto my bed, vowing never to touch Chioma’s cooking again.
That night, as I lay awake listening to The sounds of hostel life—shouts from down the hall, the faint sound of music, and Amaka’s dramatic retelling of my “toilet marathon” I realized something wasn’t right. My stomach was still unsettled, but it wasn’t just the food.
Little did I know, my marathon in the bathroom wasn’t just a bad reaction to Chioma’s cooking. It was the beginning of something much bigger. Something that would change my life forever.