Stampede in my kitchen mirrors Nigeria’s economic struggle. This shows just how far we’ve fallen in our pursuit of basic comfort. Whether in my kitchen or the grander kitchen of the nation, all is not well. And the question remains: when will it stop?
I once bought a bicycle for my kids. A shiny, new contraption, with handlebars that sparkled under the sunlight and wheels that promised freedom on two thin spokes. My children rode it for exactly seven days before it was relegated to the corner of the house like an embarrassing family secret. The bike became a symbol of discarded hopes. Until the day the price of fuel soared, and I couldn’t fill up my “tuke-tuke” car, which had, for some time now, been my pride and joy.
But a few weeks ago, I became a modern-day scavenger. I gingerly rolled the bike out from a heap of discarded toys. They took residence at an undisturbed corner of the house for years. Carefully, I brushed off the dust of neglect. I thought I found my ticket to freedom, a solution to my petrol woes. My joy was more than that of Olowookere, the fowl thief pardoned by Governor Adeleke in Osun.
It worked… the bike, I mean. For all of three days. That was, until a single spoke broke. Just one. I couldn’t find a replacement. Of course—because who stocks spare parts for bikes that only have one day in the sun? Not as if I had the money to buy, though. The bike was abandoned once again, just as quickly as it had been resurrected.
This, folks, is the reality of living under the “Tinubu era.” When Bola Ahmed Tinubu ascended to the presidency, we all knew things were about to change. Either way – for better or for worse. But nobody, not even Tinubu, prepared for the harsh reality of today.
Unfulfilled hope turns to stampede
The man who promised “Renewed Hope” has delivered. Our hope for a better future, perhaps in another life. Baba never promised “fulfilled hope,” remember? Okay, so fuel prices have skyrocketed, and the naira is on a slow, painful dive into the abyss. But Tinubu is eternally proud of himself. And he boasts it with an interesting testimony. His friend, a wealthy man with five Rolls Royces, parked them and downgrade to a Honda. Because he can’t afford to fuel or maintain the luxury cars anymore. So, do the rich also cry?
Well, things are so bad that even the Rolls Royce-rich have no more road to cruise on either. It’s a true testament to the current “hardship” that has enveloped the entire nation. And, in the spirit of keeping it real, I’ll confess: I’ve felt the pinch myself. I no longer need a doctor to tell me to exercise. I trek on my own daily from my bedroom to the kitchen. In fact, we’re all in the same kitchen… literally.
Which brings me to my real kitchen. I’ll admit, the Christmas holidays usually bring some respite. But this year, Christmas was an event tainted by desperation. You see, in a world where we now count expenses like beads, a sniff of palm oil can start a marathon. It happened the other day in my house. The moment the smoky smell hit the nostrils from the kitchen on Christmas Day, it was as if someone had announced the arrival of the Holy Grail.
There was a stampede in my kitchen that day!
Hardship caused stampede in my kitchen
It wasn’t just my kids who suddenly turned into Olympic sprinters. No, sir. My wife, too, was in the race, her slippers in hands. Her legs barely scrapped the floor. But, shockingly, it wasn’t just a “human race”— oh no. More than. It was a combination of dog race, rat race, cockroach race, etc.
The entire animal kingdom within the walls of my house came to life. The dogs came running, tails wagging furiously. Perhaps they, too, were in on the Christmas miracle. The cockroaches— those stealthy little ninjas — all over the place. They also scampered to the source of the aroma like a well-organized battalion. Even the rats, those uninvited guests who typically scamper around the corners of my kitchen like they own the place. They joined in the mad rush. At a corner of by wall, I spotted a colony of mosquitos in flight. Heck, I swear, I saw a lizard and a wall gecko giving each other high-fives at the door.
Suddenly, we were all there—every single one of us. Scrambling like starving refugees at the window of a food storehouse. It was a scene straight out of a disaster movie. In a flash, I thought the kitchen would explode.
We struggled to get in at once. When I managed to squeeze free, I ran to the fridge for a can of beer. Then, I turned to the direction of the cooking gas. My little girl was there perplexed. She watched the stampede scene like a village drunk eyeing a fly that fell into his palm-wine. With a smirk, she continued what she was doing: melting palm oil.
Yes, palm oil. Not some sumptuous jollof rice with fried chicken. Palm oil, which she needed for the “Harmattan season.” Well, you know, the cold weather is not friendly with her scaly legs. That’s right, the “aroma” that sent us a marathon was simply oil that had been heated to a liquid state. Not stew-o. For a moment, my kitchen became Nigeria, a nation of hunger-induced stampedes!
Casualties
Expectedly, the stampede in my kitchen left casualties! When the dust cleared at my kitchen door, lives were lost in the chaos. Mosquitoes fell on me. The mosquitoes, those little bloodsuckers who had been buzzing around my ears for weeks. They finally met their end in the fray. The cockroaches, ever the survivors, didn’t stand a chance against the sheer force of human and animal desperation. And the rats? One dog fell on a rat. The rest made a dash for freedom. But did they succeed? wait until I ask the other dogs.
The recent incidents of stampedes have been more than just a chaotic rush palliatives. The crippling effect of Tinubu’s government has been glaring. We, the masses are all scrambling, running to the same door, hoping to grab whatever we can. And what do we find? Not luxury, not hope, not even a decent meal. Just a space filled with political rodents and pests trying to get by with the little left.
So, my kitchen is a microcosm of Nigeria’s economic struggle. A place where burnt oil acts as “sensory deception” to trigger a stampede. This shows just how far we’ve fallen in our pursuit of basic comfort.
Whether in my kitchen or the grander kitchen of the nation, all is not well. And the question remains: when will the stampede in my kitchen and the nation stop? When will we all be able to breathe easy again, without the anxiety of what’s next?
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