That Time I Stole Meat from the Soup and the Spoon Vanished

  

Let me just start by saying this — if you've never stolen meat from a pot of soup before, are you even African?

It was a Sunday afternoon. Church was over. I was at home. My stomach was making sounds like a broken drum. The whole house was filled with the sweet smell of light soup and goat meat. My mother was in the hall, lying on the sofa, fanning herself and watching her favorite Nigerian movie. The part where someone always screams, “Chineke me!”

That was my chance.

The soup was in the kitchen, resting on the gas stove like a treasure chest. I tiptoed in like a trained ninja. I knew the pot well. I had studied it from childhood. I knew that if you opened it too fast, it would make a clong sound. I opened it slowly, like I was defusing a bomb.

And there it was.

The meat.

Fat. Juicy. Floating like a king in a hot red sea of pepper and glory.

I saw the big ladle spoon sitting beside the pot like it was daring me.

Now, I wasn’t greedy. I wasn’t trying to steal all the meat. Just one. Just a small one. A survival piece. One for the stomach road, you know?

I dipped the spoon in gently, scooped one thick piece of goat meat, and just when I was about to lift it...

The spoon vanished.

I kid you not.

One second it was there, full of meat. The next second — gone.

I froze.

I looked inside the soup again. Nothing.

The spoon wasn’t in the pot. It wasn’t on the floor. It wasn’t in my hand. And the meat? Don’t even ask.

I blinked like five times. Maybe I was dreaming.

I checked the sink. Checked my pockets. (Don’t ask me why. I was panicking.)

Then I heard it.

My mother’s voice: “Kwabena! What are you doing in the kitchen?”

Panic entered my soul.

You see, my mother has this spiritual gift. If you even think of stealing meat from her soup, she will know. I call it Meat Sense 2000.

I quickly closed the pot and stood straight like a soldier.

“Nothing, Ma!” I shouted.

“Then why are you sweating?”

“I’m... I’m helping the kitchen heat to boil faster.”

My mother didn’t reply. That was even scarier. Silence meant she was watching me with one eye, waiting for me to make a mistake.

I tiptoed back to my room, confused and still hungry. But the mystery of the vanishing spoon was eating me more than hunger.

Later that evening, when we were all seated at the table for dinner, my mother opened the pot to serve.

She frowned.

“Where is my big spoon?” she asked.

I choked on saliva.

My little sister shouted, “Mummy, Kwabena was in the kitchen!”

Judas!

“Kwabena?” my mother turned to me slowly. “Did you take the spoon?”

“No, Ma. I was just... I was trying to smell if the soup was sweet.”

She raised one eyebrow — the eyebrow of judgment.

Then she said something that chilled my bones: “You know if you lie, the soup will punish you, right?”

My eyes widened.

African mothers have this magic. They can turn ordinary things into supernatural weapons. I believed her.

That soup was now looking at me like it wanted to slap me.

I picked up my fufu quietly and ate like I didn’t exist.

Then the real drama started.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not because I was guilty. But because something in my stomach was not agreeing with me. It felt like the goat meat had called a meeting inside me.

I rolled on the bed.

I sat up.

I went to the bathroom three times.

At one point, I thought I saw the missing spoon in my dream. It was floating in space, dancing around the meat.

I woke up sweating.

The next morning, I walked like someone who had done serious spiritual battle. My eyes were red. My legs weak. My appetite had gone on vacation.

And guess what?

My mum found the spoon.

It was stuck to the bottom of the pot, hidden by a thick layer of pepper.

But did that solve my problem? No.

Because now she knew someone had tried to “meatnap” the soup, and I was suspect number one.

She gave me that look. You know the look African mothers give you when they know you’re guilty but they’re saving the punishment for later.

So I did what any smart boy would do.

I confessed.

“Ma, it was me. I just wanted small meat. But the spoon disappeared, I swear. Like magic.”

She looked at me, shook her head, and said, “You see your life? Next time you let hunger turn you into a magician, make sure you don’t vanish the evidence.”

And she laughed.

Laughed!

I didn’t laugh. I was still recovering from the trauma.

To this day, I respect that soup pot. I don’t go near it without permission. Because now I believe some pots have spirit.

THE END