MEXY'S PLACE

In the heart of Lagos, seven middle-aged women, jolly good friends from a certain Estate united for a fun night. Life had taken them down varied paths—corporate managers, homemakers and entrepreneurs—but they held their bond fiercely. This time, they were together to celebrate Adanna’s 50th birthday (fictional name and age, but true story). A club night had been the unanimous choice, something to bring back the zest of their younger days. Days of planning went into this night, with contributions pulled from spouses and mutual friends. When the funds were gathered, they decided they could afford one of the biggest clubs in Lagos but had to be thrifty on the actual spending. The choice was made: they’d secure a cabana, order bottles of wine, some plates of spicy chicken suya, and some bottled water. The grandeur was set, and for that night, they would be "big girls" in Lagos. What they didn’t know however was that their thoughts were mere dreams of what was to be and not th...

Sunday started with high hopes and eager energy as I rallied the kids for a family project—processing garri from cassava harvested right from our small farm. It was supposed to be a fun, bonding experience, teaching them the age-old tradition of turning cassava into one of our favorite staples. Little did I know, the day would take a very different turn. The first few steps went smoothly, almost too smoothly. The cassava had been harvested for us and we peeled them with a sense of accomplishment, and tossed the tubers into water, feeling like seasoned farmers. Next came washing, then blending. Yes! I meant blending. We chopped them into small pieces and blended them at home with our blender, then went ahead to squeeze out the water with all the excitement in a properly washed pillowcase (we didn’t have the appropriate sac). The fermentation stage passed days before without drama, and by mid-afternoon of Sunday, we were ready for the final step—frying the cassava into garri. My yo...