The Suya Detour

I promised myself I’d cook on Saturday.

Groceries were in the fridge. Rice was measured. Chicken was marinating. The plan was solid… until 6:47pm.

My cousin called from Abuja. “I’m around Gwarimpa. Suya is hot. You coming or you want to eat cold rice alone?”

Cold rice lost.

Ten minutes later I was at the suya spot by the junction. No white tablecloths, no menu, just smoke, shouting, and that smell that makes your stomach betray all your meal plans.

We grabbed a bench, not a table. He ordered: 1 plate suya, extra yaji, kuli-kuli, and 2 chilled Fanta. I didn’t cook a thing. I didn’t wash a pot.

We talked with our mouths half full. About his new job, my BUNULINKS orders, why Abuja traffic is a personality trait. A kid selling pure water kept passing. A taxi driver stopped just to buy 3 sticks for the road.

The suya was peppery, a little charred, perfect. I ate slowly because leaving meant the evening was over.

By 8:30pm I was home. Kitchen untouched. Rice still raw. Chicken still in the fridge for tomorrow.

I didn’t cook. But I ate out, laughed too loud, and remembered that some nights are seasoned better by people than by spices.

And honestly? No regrets.