In Naija, when someone tells you “come let’s have lunch” tomorrow at Chicken Republic, you grin yourself to the location, with an empty pocket. Because, not only would you eat on a free, your host is likely to in fact pay your taxi back home, afraid you may have become too heavy to walk.
In “the abroad”, when your oyibo friend tells you “come let’s have lunch” tomorrow at Nandos, you had better not start thinking the MENU belonged notoriously to you, and the bill, exclusively on him. No. You cannot do this.
I almost learned the hard way on a wintry December noon at Covent Garden. This Norwegian friend had continued to moan that each time I came into town, I vamoosed without a word. How could I have known that his “come let’s have lunch” was on per-head billing?
This thing they say about listening to the solemn inner voice. Works like fuck. I tucked 30 pounds in my pocket, money I scarcely had, as I’d only planned to see a Chelsea game the next day, and return to the idyllic Aberystwyth.
At the table, my supposed host would welcome me with glee, smiling in all the languages of Europe. Nothing’s as tasteful as free food, I tell myself, and without knowing what was to come, I implore Amadioha to bless oyibo for his generosity.
I grab the MENU with ease, sleekly unbuckling my belt. The bill wasn’t mine to worry about after all. Fortunately, two competing voices began to play mind games in my head. The first one urges me to order with confidence, while the other voice beckons on me to use my head. You know, that gentle voice, soft like the breeze on a quiet shore, saying: hmmmm…as you dey order, hol’ ya money o. No go pour yaself for ground for here o.
And because I hate embarrassments more than I love red wine, I listen to the second voice.
Hunger had not brought me there, I had food where I came from. But the idea of a free meal in a decent restaurant never hurt nobody. I relax nonetheless. Oyibo orders salmon, I order same. He says: add some fries, I order same. Oyibo says: get me the cod special, I look at the MENU again, and confirm its within spending range, I say: get me the cod special.
When bills arrive, I grab a toothpick, typical naija style, do eyes-right like a soldier on an army parade, and begin to hum a catholic hymn. I wish to turn back when the waiter is gone, with no one signalling anything to me. It doesn’t happen. Oyibo is the one that even taps me. Mitt, she’s waiting for you, he says.
I look at the bill, 22.99 GBP. Christ, that’s the equivalent of a hand-basket full of grocery at Morrisons. Fuck me wasting 22.99 on some stupid cod and salmon fish. Could’ve just ignored oyibo's lunch invite and say I had stomach ache and stayed home. I pay up eventually. But so reluctant wast this payment, the waiter could’ve sworn she was watching a movie character acting in slow-motion.
The whole time, oyibo just sat there, totally oblivious to the damage he had done. I go home ruing that lunch. 22.99 on azu nkiti. Common fish! Azu ndu that I will buy from Mama Ifeanyi at Amakohia market for only 1.99 pounds, and call neighbours to come and help me finish it.
In “the abroad”, when your oyibo friend tells you “come let’s have lunch” tomorrow at Nandos, you had better not start thinking the MENU belonged notoriously to you, and the bill, exclusively on him. No. You cannot do this.
I almost learned the hard way on a wintry December noon at Covent Garden. This Norwegian friend had continued to moan that each time I came into town, I vamoosed without a word. How could I have known that his “come let’s have lunch” was on per-head billing?
This thing they say about listening to the solemn inner voice. Works like fuck. I tucked 30 pounds in my pocket, money I scarcely had, as I’d only planned to see a Chelsea game the next day, and return to the idyllic Aberystwyth.
At the table, my supposed host would welcome me with glee, smiling in all the languages of Europe. Nothing’s as tasteful as free food, I tell myself, and without knowing what was to come, I implore Amadioha to bless oyibo for his generosity.
I grab the MENU with ease, sleekly unbuckling my belt. The bill wasn’t mine to worry about after all. Fortunately, two competing voices began to play mind games in my head. The first one urges me to order with confidence, while the other voice beckons on me to use my head. You know, that gentle voice, soft like the breeze on a quiet shore, saying: hmmmm…as you dey order, hol’ ya money o. No go pour yaself for ground for here o.
And because I hate embarrassments more than I love red wine, I listen to the second voice.
Hunger had not brought me there, I had food where I came from. But the idea of a free meal in a decent restaurant never hurt nobody. I relax nonetheless. Oyibo orders salmon, I order same. He says: add some fries, I order same. Oyibo says: get me the cod special, I look at the MENU again, and confirm its within spending range, I say: get me the cod special.
When bills arrive, I grab a toothpick, typical naija style, do eyes-right like a soldier on an army parade, and begin to hum a catholic hymn. I wish to turn back when the waiter is gone, with no one signalling anything to me. It doesn’t happen. Oyibo is the one that even taps me. Mitt, she’s waiting for you, he says.
I look at the bill, 22.99 GBP. Christ, that’s the equivalent of a hand-basket full of grocery at Morrisons. Fuck me wasting 22.99 on some stupid cod and salmon fish. Could’ve just ignored oyibo's lunch invite and say I had stomach ache and stayed home. I pay up eventually. But so reluctant wast this payment, the waiter could’ve sworn she was watching a movie character acting in slow-motion.
The whole time, oyibo just sat there, totally oblivious to the damage he had done. I go home ruing that lunch. 22.99 on azu nkiti. Common fish! Azu ndu that I will buy from Mama Ifeanyi at Amakohia market for only 1.99 pounds, and call neighbours to come and help me finish it.
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