I bought a shawarma yesterday.
Not because I was hungry.
Well...
I was.
But somewhere between the first bite and the last, I realised I wasn't eating food anymore.
I was eating life.
Shawarma is one of the few things in Nigeria that has successfully solved tribalism.
Chicken doesn't fight cabbage.
Sausage doesn't drag position with carrots.
Mayonnaise doesn't remind ketchup that it is more expensive.
Everything simply understands the assignment.
Imagine if human beings behaved like shawarma.
The first thing people notice is always the chicken.
It gets all the glory.
The compliments.
The attention.
"The chicken is juicy."
Nobody has ever gathered friends together to say,
"Guys, you need to taste this amazing cabbage!"
But remove the cabbage...
Suddenly something feels incomplete.
That's life.
Some people are born to be the headline.
Others are born to make the headline possible.
The irony is that both are equally important.
Then comes the carrot.
Small.
Quiet.
Colourful.
It doesn't make noise.
It simply reminds you that beauty isn't always loud.
Every family has that one carrot.
The sibling who settles everybody's quarrel.
The colleague who lightens every meeting.
The friend who enters the room and somehow the room becomes lighter.
They rarely trend.
But they always matter.
Then there are the onions.
Ah...
Nobody likes them until they're missing.
Truth is like onions.
It stings.
Sometimes it makes you cry.
But remove it completely...
Everything starts tasting fake.
Every relationship needs someone who can lovingly say,
"Guy... you're wrong."
Not everybody who disagrees with you is your enemy.
Some people are simply protecting the flavour of your life.
Now let's talk about pepper.
Life without pepper is boring.
Life with too much pepper is punishment.
Balance.
That's the word adulthood keeps trying to teach us.
Work hard.
But rest.
Save money.
But enjoy it.
Love deeply.
But don't lose yourself.
Pepper is wonderful...
Until your eyes begin to negotiate with your ancestors.
And then...
There is mayonnaise.
The peacemaker.
It doesn't compete.
It connects.
It enters quietly and somehow convinces ingredients that have no business liking one another to stay together.
Every organisation needs a mayonnaise.
Every church.
Every family.
Every WhatsApp group.
That one person who hears both sides before talking.
Who apologises even when they didn't start the fight.
Who keeps people together long enough for healing to happen.
We don't celebrate these people enough.
Then comes the wrap itself.
The quiet MVP.
Nobody orders shawarma because of the wrap.
Yet without it...
Everything beautiful becomes a public embarrassment.
Talent is the chicken.
Success is the filling.
Character is the wrap.
Without character, your gifts eventually spill everywhere.
The saddest thing about life is that many people spend years trying to become the chicken.
Very few are trying to become the wrap.
And finally...
The heat.
Before shawarma reaches your hands, it passes through fire.
Nobody applauds the grill.
Yet the grill is where strangers become a family.
Pressure has a funny way of introducing us to our best selves.
The heat that almost broke you...
May be the same heat that held you together.
So the next time you eat a shawarma, pay attention.
Every ingredient has a different colour.
A different texture.
A different taste.
A different purpose.
None is trying to become the other.
The chicken isn't jealous of the cabbage.
The onions aren't competing with the sausage.
The mayonnaise doesn't wake up wishing it were pepper.
They all understand one simple truth:
Perfection isn't created by one outstanding ingredient.
It's created when ordinary ingredients agree to work together.
Maybe that's why so many marriages fail.
Why businesses collapse.
Why friendships disappear.
Too many chickens.
Not enough wraps.
Too many peppers.
Not enough mayonnaise.
Too many people shouting,
"Notice me!"
Not enough people asking,
"How do I make this whole thing better?"
Perhaps life has never been about becoming the most important ingredient.
Perhaps life is simply about making sure that when someone takes a bite of the world you helped build...
They smile.
Because in the end...
Nobody remembers the ingredient that shouted the loudest.
They only remember how good the shawarma tasted.
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