He walked up to our table with his weird mix of confident stride and subtle limp.
There we sat, sixteen scared
“Gentleman.” He pronounced the word really fast, so it sounded like ‘
“Jerilman“, he said, pointing at my plate, “Is that your food?”
I gulped, Jona snickered.
You should have seen me sweating.
I was finished.
The Facts
Today, Motown has four dining halls: two on the East, and two on the West. Back in 2010, there were just two.
Anyhoo, in the main eastern dining hall, the tables were arranged in three rows: A, B and C. Each row had twenty tables, numbered 1 — close to the prefects’ high table — through 20 — all the way at the back, and close to the door.
The first table I was assigned was table C19, next to last on the C-row, and right next to a window. On that table were sixteen Aggrey house boys, all of us ravenous and consistently famished from being overworked in the hands of Eben and Smizzle.
As with everything in Motown, there were strict rules in the D-hall. First of all, nobody was allowed to start eating until the senior prefect rang the bell. As a matter of fact, the senior prefect rang the bell five times during every dining session:
The first ring meant “start serving”; the second was for us to rise and pray, or more accurately, say “Amen” to someone’s prayer and start eating; the third was for us to stop eating and start clearing their tables; the fourth was for us to quiet down and listen to announcements, and the last one was for us to stand up and say “Amen” to another prayer. It was the most organized approach to food I’d ever seen.
It’s worth noting that in Motown, with the exception of bread, you had to eat everything with a fork and knife.
“Even kenkey?” you ask. Especially kenkey. I know, bougie, right?
Another thing is that every table had a table-head and assistant. These people were responsible for serving food and ensuring that the table was cleared at the end of every meal. Almost every high school in Ghana has the same kind of dining hall pans. Whoever controlled the pan was king or queen on their table.
There was no way sixteen Aggrey boys were going to leave our nutritional fates in the hands of two people. And so we came to a very political three-step compromise:
- First, we would distribute the seven days of the week among fourteen of us. Two people were not interested in serving anyway.
- Secondly, whoever served was allowed to heap food onto their plates on their assigned day. Everyone who served would get their chance.
- Finally, whoever served had to clear the table that day. Oh, and our seniors’ tables in addition… first year was slavery, chale.
Based on this arrangement, I really can’t remember who the original table-heads were. We had new table-heads every day of the week, and my day was Tuesday.
Why Tuesday? Simple: gɔbɛ (pronounced ‘gor-berh’). Sweet sweet gɔbɛ, although we called it ‘
We had gɔbɛ for lunch on Tuesdays, and that was all that mattered to me.
‘Goblinism’
I don’t think you understand my passion for gɔbɛ. It’s quite possible that I made a natural transition from breast milk to gɔbɛ as a toddler. It is etched into my earliest memories from as young as two years old. In fact, the only thing that I’ll ever allow to come between me and my gɔbɛ is a spoon. You can quote me.
A friend of mine, we call him Energy, has a name for people like me: Goblins.
I pray for you right now, that you too will become a goblin. Can I hear an “Amen”?
In fact, according to the Good News Translation of Genesis 25:29, Esau gave up his birthright for gɔbɛ: “One day while Jacob was cooking some bean [gɔbɛ] soup, Esau came in from hunting. He was hungry” (Gen 25:29 – GNT, emphasis mine)
It’s that good. So don’t be so hard on Esau for selling his birthright… he didn’t stand a chance. Esau was the first Goblin.
Now back to the story.
Once Upon A Tuesday
It started like any other Tuesday, Jona and I, the Tuesday table-heads, shared porridge in the morning, then we went to class, had a boring day and returned to the dining hall in the afternoon. It was gɔbɛ time.
As was the custom, we served everyone the bare minimum: one ladle of beans and one finger of fried plantain. The rest was ours. All ours! I kid you not, I just smelled beans while writing this!!
Ladle after ladle, we scooped the beans with gusto, heaping our plates like we never had before. My plate was almost overflowing. All my senses were involved: I could feel the heat from the plate; I saw the oil glistening in the pan; I could smell the aroma, heck I could taste it, and I began to hear the beans call my name, “Kodzo, Kodzooo, Kodzoooooo”.
All my senses, chale, all my senses.
I was just waiting for the senior prefect to ring the bell so I could dig in. Damn, this food was in trouble.
Clang! Clang! “Please rise for the first grace!” the dining hall prefect shouted. He didn’t have to say it twice. I was up, almost drooling.
“For what we’re about to have, we thank You, oh Lord!” he prayed.
“Amen!” I replied enthusiastically, as I sat down and pulled out my fork and knife.
All of a sudden, the table became uneasily quiet. Something was up. I turned around, and my heart skipped a beat.
Walking down our isle with his weird mix of confident stride and subtle limp was Boti, the sanctions
Boti was the kind of guy whose presence made you hold your breath. Literally. We were afraid to breathe too hard around him.
It looked like he was just walking past, and then all of a sudden he stopped and began to gravitate towards C19. There we sat, sixteen scared boys looking up at the person who was literally the hardest guy in Motown. The rumours of how he got that limp varied depending on who you spoke to, but the one I chose to believe was that he got it from wrestling with an angel, like Jacob in the Bible.
“Gentleman”. He pronounced the word really fast, so it sounded like ‘
“Jerilman“, he said, pointing at my plate, “Is that your food?”
I gulped; Jona snickered. He had craftily hidden his equally overflowing plate behind the serving pan. You should have seen me sweating. I was finished.
“I said, is that your food?” he repeated the question calmly. Too calmly.
“Y-y-yes please. A-a-a-any problem?” I stuttered.
He almost laughed. “No problem at all.”
Then with his left hand he pointed at my plate, and with his right hand he pointed at another guy’s plate (the guy was called Onero), then he crossed his hands. It looked like he was trying to do the Macarena dance.
I didn’t understand. I stared at him with a blank expression on my face.
He did it again.
I was still blank.
And then he spoke a word that sent a shiver down my spine:
“Exchange”
Ehnn?! Ex-what?! I wanted to cry.
I know I’ve made all this noise about “The only thing that will come between me and my gɔbɛ is a spoon”, and obviously Boti was not a spoon, but I couldn’t do anything about it. The C19 boys laughed me to scorn as I passed my plate to Onero and took his measly portion.
Boti smiled
I couldn’t lift my head. I just looked down at the sad plate of beans in front of me. Me
Onero amazed me
Once bitten, twice shy.