I woke up this morning to a bowl of Garri mixed with Cocoa powder and milk. It was a Monday morning and the usual sounds of an awakening city filled the air, cars, bikes and loud human noises. My upstairs neighbour had begun his routine gospel playlist, at least I could be grateful it wasn’t a Hi-Fi Mainstream rap and hip-pop beat, mornings are very crucial to my existence.
Back to my Garri. At first I mixed up the dry constituents together gradually losing sight of the brown and pale yellow colours of the beverage additive in the white mass of cassava goodness. Why I focus on such minute things has never bothered me, it just comes. The sachet water was on the table, I could imagine the water molecules running here and there in a final attempt to remain in the polypropylene pack after the outpouring, but then that was just my mind. I decided to eat the mixture that way without water, thinking through my day as I would plan it to go.
For me even spontaneity requires some planning.It was crunchy, and childhood memories flashed back. Cotonou Garri was the peak of my encounters, it was almost like corn flakes in taste and had this crunch that local ones didn’t have. I remember an aunt telling me the dry Garri would suck and dry up my blood. I always wished it would happen, but it never did, for me since I was going to drink water afterwards, the stomach could do the mixing. The forbidden Garri and mango combo, which I took a lot of times also came to mind, it was funny, but if those aches ever came, I mist have forgotten I had even taken anything of the sorts.I remembered when all i ate for three days was Garri, with different modifications- dry Garri, Garri and water, Garri and red oil with salt, and then with a little pepper to help my bleeding gums cum stomach, and then with a little water when it seemed my blood was drying up. My body was always warm and my eyes were opened to the other realm.
It was a lesson I had to learn the hard way. I was learning faith and how to work it, so I decided not to call home, believing God would touch the heart of my parents to send in some money. You don’t have to preach to me, I learnt my lessons, good and bad. The miracle happened anyways as my mum called to ask after my welfare, I had to spill the beans, or in this case the Garri. I smile, here I am again with a bowl of Garri. I had promised never to taste it at some point, declaring I had eaten enough for all my great grand children to come. They could get their cyanide requirement from my genes. After eating all manner and types, I was certain it was true. I remember one time I blanked out while still eating the Garri, it was badly processed, and I could see the clear distinction in the aqueous phases from the side of my bowl, but hunger prevented the information from being processed correctly. I woke up to the bowl beside me and proceeded to empty the contents in the gutter behind my window.
I think a visit to a processing factory or local processing outfit would be nice, I saw one large one in Oyo.