CHAPTER ONE: BOARDING HOUSE DISCUSSION
"Get me the yam flour on the island, Floral," my mum said as she opened the pot of boiling water still on the electric cooker.
"Okay, ma," I said, as I dropped the plastic cup I had been using to drink milk on the island and went to get the yam flour for my mum.
Though I am short, I can still reach up there to get it for her.
I handed it to her, and she took the yam flour from me, then picked up the turning stick from the small plastic plate of water and continued cooking.
I watched as she stirred the yam flour into the boiling water to make amala (as the Yoruba always call it, instead of "yam flour").
I smiled as I drank the remainder of the milk from the plastic cup, thinking of how my mum's amala always feels so soft and delicate.
My mouth watered at the thought.
"I am done!" my mum said, as she put down the yam flour and covered the pot, leaving the amala to heat.
She gave me the turning stick to wash immediately. My mum always told me to do that, to stop the amala from sticking to it, so it would not be hard to wash later.
I washed the turning stick as my mum served the soup—egusi and red soup—into three plates: one for her, one for my dad, and one for me.
She then put the meat into separate plates before opening the amala pot and shaping it nicely onto our plates.
I closed the tap and watched her dish the food.
"Go and tell your dad that food is ready!" my mum said, washing her hands and removing her apron so she could take the food to the dining room.
I went to the sitting room where my dad was watching football—a match between Arsenal and Liverpool.
My dad is an Arsenal fan, so I guessed he was watching to see who would win.
As for me, I hate football. In fact, I hate sports, to be sincere.
Sports are not my thing. I am not a chubby girl, and I am grateful for it, because exercise and anything related to sports do not interest me.
"Dad, Mum said food is ready," I told him. He turned to look at me and smiled.
"Flower, I'll be there soon. This match is really unpredictable. I have to watch it to the end so I can see the result face to face," my dad said, calling me by the nickname he had given me.
"Okay, but you know when amala is cold, it won't be as delicious and soft as when it is hot," I reminded him.
"I can see you already know how the Yorubas here in Nigeria always eat it," my dad smiled as he turned off the television so he could come and eat with us in the dining room.
"Yes, Dad, Yoruba is my tribe as well as yours," I replied as he stood up from the couch to follow me.
My dad took his seat at the dining table, and I sat down too. My mum also joined us.
"Our heavenly Father, bless this food and provide for the needy, in Jesus' name," my dad prayed.
"AMEN!" my mum and I chorused.
I looked at my plate, washed my hand in the nearest basin, and then took a mouthful of amala and egusi soup.
"Yum! Delicious as always," my dad said, complimenting my mum.
"Thanks, dear!" my mum replied, as I smiled, enjoying my food.
"Flower, have you made up your mind already?" my dad asked, knowing I understood what he was referring to.
"Dad, I told you, boarding school is not for me," I said, focusing on my food, trying not to lose my appetite because of the topic.
"Your mum and I won't always be around to look after you, so I think boarding school is the best option," my dad said, looking at me with an assuring smile.
Wow. My parents were really going to abandon me in a boarding school in Nigeria. It's not like Nigerian boarding schools are bad; it's just that I am not used to being far away from them.
"It will be fine. At least we'll get you anything you want," my mum added.
Not you again, Mum. Everyone just hates me.
"Your elder brother is in Igbogbo Boarding School in Ikorodu, here in Lagos, so why do you want to be different from him?" my dad said, now bringing up Francis.
Francis is my elder brother, and he has been in boarding school for five years. He comes home during the holidays, and now he is already in grade twelve.
Any time Francis comes home, he always looks thin, and that frightens me.
Francis is not actually fat, but at least he isn't supposed to look so thin. Not like he always does after returning from school.
I once asked him what he thought about boarding school, and guess what he said? "With time you will enjoy it."
Is that even an answer?
I always get the same response from him, and, surprisingly, he smiles after saying it.
I always look at him weirdly, as if he isn't really my brother.
"Francis is different from me," I said to them, washing my hands in the basin.
"No more excuses. You are going," my dad said firmly.
"Make me!" I snapped out of annoyance.
My mum and dad looked at me as if they hadn't just heard what I said.
"What did you say?" my mum asked, standing up from the chair. She washed her hands in the basin and began walking towards me.
I already knew what was next, so I kept quiet, afraid of her reaction.