When Sunday Tasted Different - by Ruthdaprotagonist

I knew it was Sunday before anyone told me.There was a smell in the air.I was still lying on the old mat beside my younger brother when I heard the sound of firewood cracking outside. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster was already shouting at the morning, while smoke from our little kitchen drifted through the compound. Then came the smell of fried onions and pepper.I sat up.“Rice,” I whispered.My brother opened one eye.“Are you sure?”I didn't answer. I was already running outside.Our kitchen was nothing more than a small mud structure behind the house. My mother was crouched beside the fire, stirring a pot while smoke covered her face.“Mama, is it rice?”She laughed.“You and this rice. Go and fetch water first.”I grabbed the bucket and ran.That was how important rice was to me. I could fetch water without complaining, sweep the compound, even wash my father's slippers.Anything, as long as I knew there was rice waiting for me.In those days, rice wasn't an everyday meal in our house. We ate whatever was available—garri, yam, cassava, whatever Mama could put together.But rice was different.It was something we looked forward to.By afternoon, the whole compound smelled of food. I kept finding excuses to walk past the kitchen.“Mama, do you need anything?”“No.”Five minutes later:“Mama, should I help you?”“Go and sit down!”My brother laughed at me.“You will finish the food before they serve it.”When my father returned from church, my mother served him first. I watched carefully.Then my younger siblings.Finally, my plate came.I carried it under the mango tree and just stared at it.It wasn't a huge plate. There wasn't much meat.But to me, it looked like a feast.I took the first spoonful slowly.My brother came and sat beside me.“Give me some.”I pulled the plate closer.“Go and ask Mama.”He laughed.Then he pointed at my plate.“You have meat.”I quickly covered the tiny piece with rice.“Which meat?”We both burst out laughing.I remember that afternoon clearly.The breeze moving through the mango leaves.Children running along the dusty road.My mother washing plates beside the kitchen.My father talking with a neighbour.And me, sitting there with a full stomach, feeling like the luckiest child alive.I didn't know we were poor.I only knew that sometimes Mama counted things before buying them. Sometimes food had to stretch until everyone had eaten. Sometimes we ate what was available.But that Sunday, none of it mattered.I had rice.My family was around me.And tomorrow was still tomorrow.Years later, I stood in my kitchen looking at a steaming plate of rice.There was no firewood.No mud kitchen.No counting of portions.I could eat rice whenever I wanted.Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.Yet as I looked at that plate, I suddenly remembered that little boy under the mango tree.I remembered how carefully he ate.How he didn't want the meal to finish.And I understood something I hadn't understood as a child.It wasn't really the rice I was celebrating.It was the feeling.For a few minutes, nothing was missing.I have eaten better food since then. Much better.But somehow, none of it has tasted quite like that Sunday rice.I don't miss the poverty.I miss the simplicity.I miss the boy who could find happiness in something so small.Maybe that's the strange thing about growing up.We spend our childhood wishing for more, only to grow up and realize that some of the moments we were most eager to leave behind are the very moments we wish we could return to.So today, as I eat my Sunday rice, I think about that little village boy.He didn't know he was creating a memory.He only knew that it was Sunday.There was rice on the table.And for that moment, "nothing else mattered." ❤️🍚 Happy Sunday.

Other insights from Ruthdaprotagonist

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons