[STORY] Two Sundays ago, I decided to make Jollof rice

Two Sundays ago, I decided to make Jollof rice — not just any Jollof, but the kind that makes neighbours knock and ask, “Who’s cooking that?”

I’d been scrolling through TikTok food videos all morning, saving recipes I’d probably never try, until one video hit me: “The secret to smoky party Jollof is patience.”

That was all the motivation I needed.

I jumped up, tied my apron like I was entering MasterChef Nigeria, and turned on Burna Boy’s “Last Last.”

My kitchen became my therapy room. Tomatoes roasting, onions sizzling, my phone leaning dangerously close to the fire for a perfect Instagram Boomerang. The whole vibe was vintage Lagos meets Gen Z kitchen aesthetic.

Just as I was about to pour in the parboiled rice, I got a text from Teni — my almost relationship turned we’re-just-friends-but-still-text-everyday situationship.

Teni: “Hey, I’m around your area. Should I stop by?”

I stared at the message for a whole 10 seconds, spoon mid-air.

You know that chef pause when life suddenly turns into a Netflix series?

Yeah, that was me.

Me: “Sure, I’m just cooking Jollof. Come if you want.”

A risky invite, but I was feeling bold — maybe even a little spicy, like my sauce.

Fast-forward thirty minutes: my kitchen smelled like heaven. I was in full-blown chef mode, dancing with my spatula when the doorbell rang.

She walked in wearing one of those oversized tees that looks better than a dress.

She sniffed the air and smiled, “You made this? Wow, it smells like my mom’s kitchen in Ibadan.”

We laughed. It felt warm. Familiar.

So I served her a plate — the rice perfectly red-orange, garnished with fried plantain, and grilled turkey that looked like it came from a food influencer’s dream reel.

“Damn,” she said, after the first bite. “You really could start a food blog with this.”

I smiled, “It’s in my plans. ‘TheCityCeleb Kitchen’ — sounds fancy, right?”

She laughed and said, “Only if you promise to invite me for tasting sessions.”

We ate, laughed, and even recorded a mini “rate my chef” video for TikTok.

The lighting was perfect. The moment was perfect.

Then came the twist.

As she scrolled through her phone to post the clip, a call came in — from ‘Babe’.

Her face froze. She quickly declined it, pretending nothing happened.

But I noticed.

My stomach twisted — and it wasn’t from the pepper.

“Who’s Babe?” I asked casually, trying to keep my tone light.

She sighed, set down her fork, and said, “I didn’t think it mattered. We’re not official, right?”

For a second, everything around me — the aroma, the music, even the smoke — felt distant.

I just nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re not.”

She stood up, grabbed her purse, and said softly, “The rice was perfect though.”

And just like that, she left.

Silence filled my kitchen.

The once-perfect meal now felt like heartbreak in a pot.

I slumped into a chair, staring at the leftover Jollof like it had betrayed me too.

But here’s the funny thing about food — it doesn’t judge, it just comforts.

So, I packed the rest of the rice, took it to my neighbor’s kids downstairs, and said, “You guys want some?”

They screamed, “Yes!”

Their joy filled the air, and for a moment, the heaviness disappeared.

That night, I sat on my balcony, typing a blog post titled “The Jollof That Taught Me Patience.”

Because maybe the video was right — the secret to great Jollof (and love) isn’t in the recipe;

it’s in patience.

And if you ever want to make that perfect, smoky Jollof —

use fresh tomatoes, good vibes, and never text your ex while it’s simmering.