Fufu (fermented cassava fufu) is food from the gods...with a vengeful disposition. When served a plate of warm Fufu, you take a moment to appreciate its beauty. White or cream, with an incredibly smooth skin the way food ought not to be, and a dreamy softness (fine boy, no pimples and easily made dimples). As you roll mounds with your palm, you attest to its apparent amicable texture, the way it forms coherent balls like well-formed arguements (unlike say, scatterbrained semolina, which wouldnt mould well) and sticks to your hand in little lumps that can be easily stripped off, like a courteous courtesan, convivial, yet aloof (unlike garri, which will stick like a smeared abrasive, brazenly; a drunken whore to a spendthrift old goat) As you dunk the mounds in soup, it makes dainty plop sounds, unlike some other swallows which would squelch and slurp in soup. You pick it and plop in your mouth, the mouth which is bestowed with its blessed taste, a kind of milky creaminess and a complimentary salty savor; a gustatory romance. The soup is almost a third wheel (okay, a third wheel on a tricycle, Ill grant as much). Do you make an effort to swallow? Yes, but only because you dont want this dreamy taste to end. However, swallow you must, and the ball of Fufu does that expertly, a professional on the slide, and not the fretty frightened girl clutching the rails on her first breaktime slide ride like garri. It slides down as smooth as the serpents seduction, down the esophagus, and sinks sedately into the stomach. Ah. Sigh of satiation. Go again? Why the hell not! Roll round two. And finally, as all things are wont to, it ends; the fufu plate lies empty before you. Getting up and to the sink to wash your hands, you rue two things; that the food is finished and your stomach is stout. You dip your hands in the water and scrub and wash off the stuck pieces of food. There, clean hands! However, sniff your hands, and it smells like you just scooped ass! Arrrrrrgh! You scrape and scrub, you douse your hands with the lemon-scented liquid soap, sprinkle them liberally with detergent and scour to angry redness with the sponge, and wash for as long as the meal lasted. Sniff, sniff. Now, it smells like you just scooped ass and failed to wash your hands properly. Eating Fufu is great, no kidding. However, because of the trauma of the ineffectiveness of handwashing in banishing the smell, you might curb your fufu desiring appetite. If you indulge often, you may notice your friends scatter like meeting umunna when asked to donate for something other than a feast, and that handshakes are withheld miserly from you. They probably say, when you come around, Scoot; here comes the ones who scoops ass! PS: People may wonder how I made the connection between the smell of Fufu fingers and scooped ass; afterall recognition means knowing again and I must have scooped ass before and, Lord have mercy, sniffed it! I must say that there could be mitigating factors. One is advised to, in cases of emergency, to break glass; you are permitted in similar cases, to scrape ass. Anyway, let him without a scoop-ass, throw the first shit. There, you just touched shit, which is worse. Dont ever touch me, neither should your children; maybe, by the third generation theyd have washed the shit off their hands. *whistling and stirring a pot of simmering fufu*
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 09:32:21 +0000
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