On this Saturday morning, you woke up with swollen eyes. Because the night before, the cow your father bought had somehow got loose and the women had screamed at the men to go after the loosened cow. Apparently, at the age of eight, you were one of the men.
While you struggled to find your feet in the room where the kids had slept, you traced the nice aroma of fried meat and you are sure that the cow that gave you troubles was long dead by now.
The community women who assumed the work of caterers were already in the compound.
When the boys from the next compound were awake, you all followed the plan - walk aimlessly around the cooking spot and pick the meats you can whenever those women were lost in their gossip. Unfortunately, like my people would say - “the head that would suffer would suffer nonetheless". That was your case this morning, as one of your aimless strolling and quest to steal some fried meat ended when you tripped the hot oil off its position.
The women, too tired to flog, poured another oil into the frying pan and it was like nothing ever happened. It was one of the rarest miracles on earth.
In the night, you slept in a wider space because most of your cousins had left after the party. While your mind raced to the oil-spilling incident, something told you that you were safe. Your mother was still too tired to flog and in a few days, she’d forget it ever happened. She’d be more mesmerized by the fact that she threw a successful Yoruba party. Who your devilish mind didn’t prepare you for was your father. He wasn’t too tired to beat and he didn’t care if the party was successful or not.