𝓛𝓲𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓼

The day that has been eagerly anticipated has finally come. One month has passed since the Greg School of Entrepreneurship's intense lectures, and today is our first practical. We must cook one dish that is unique to our tribe, as instructed by our instructor.

 
Given how much I value my tribal dish, I find this to be exciting news.
 

Despite not wanting it, Omoh made sure I got the afang soup. My intention was to prepare white soup, or apangkukwo, but Omoh advised against it because afang soup is more visually appealing and richer. However, since Afang is a well-liked meal, I see her perspective even though I think my selection is equally enjoyable and rich.

 
Omoh accompanied me to school for the first time today, which is a plus because she volunteered to help me carry my extra baggage. I know her newfound generosity is motivated by a desire not to miss out on the soup. I originally scoffed at her plea, but I couldn't say no.

 
Because she is not a student, she is not permitted to enter the hall, so I ask her to wait for me in the canteen behind my department, promising to call her as soon as I'm done.

 
I walk straight to my table, drop my luggage on the floor next it, and lift the white and yellow apron folded neatly on one end of my table, near a plaque with my table number imprinted on it.

 
I carefully inspect the apron, ensuring that it bears my right table number, 008, inscribed on it. When I saw that it did, I quickly put on the apron.
 

"Good morning, chefs." The instructor in charge of the practical examination welcomes us.

 
That's right, I'm a chef. I grin happily, then add my voice to the uniform reply, "Morning, Mr. Collins." 
 

He smiles and waves his hands enthusiastically at us before continuing. "In our previous lesson, we learned the difference between a chef and a professional cook, as well as the importance of hygiene, cleanliness, and orderliness in the kitchen. We're now going to put what we've learned over the last month into practice, which is why we're starting with something easy. Our tribal meal teaches us more about our heritage, which is the reason we're here today. I and the judges will be watching you as you tell us about your culture through your cooking." Mr. Collins enlightens us.
 

He moves slightly to his right, giving me a clear view of the judges seated on the high table on stage.

 
"These judges have come all the way here to evaluate your work, and like our tradition is, whatever score they give you is over 100, and it will be posted on the notice board. See this exercise as an examination and not a competition." He tells us.
 

"As an examination and not a competition?" I scoff before swaying my eyes around the hall. "Tell that to the competitive spirit that has already possessed the heart of every student here today." I mutter silently to myself.

 
"To my right is Miss. Adeyemi Rotimi Smith, a nutritionist and department head. Mr. Moses Okoro, catering department coordinator; Mrs. Elizabeth Wright and Mr. Austin Ofure, both Greg Resort, California reps; and then Chef Chris and Chef Andrew." Mr. Collins makes an introduction. We immediately applauded after he finished announcing the judges.

 
I move my eyes through the six judges and the student present one final time, then I smile. "Of course, it is just an exam, Eno. Not a competition." I try to convince myself. What a lie! Every exam is a competition, at least for me. The more points I get, the better my chances of being picked for California. So yes, it is a very crucial competition.

 
We see Mr. Collins hold out a bell. He rings it gently before announcing, "You may begin."
 

Our table in front of me is designed like a kitchen counter, and it has everything we require. It has a stainless steel sink at the end and a nice, kitchen-style spigot fitted for our convenience. And on the left end of the counter is a gas oven with two stove rings on top. Also, on the right end of the counter is a medium-sized table that will be useful later.
 

The hall is spacious and well-ventilated. The enormous windows that were evenly spaced across both sides of the hall were open, including the back door, allowing in natural light and fresh air.
 

The space between each student's counter is also large enough to allow for easy movement within each corner.

 
I say a quick prayer in my head and then unload my bags.

 
There is no time to look around to see what everyone else is up to; I do my best to stay focused on my own task.
 

Preparing afang soup isn’t as difficult as people make it out to be. It may be time-consuming and expensive, but trust me, it’s worth it.

 
To save time, I had already sliced and pounded my Afang leaf with fragrance pepper (yellow pepper) from home. Slicing afang leaf is an art; it must be sliced very thinly. After slicing the afang leaf, pound it until it is properly combined. If you can't slice or pound the leaves yourself, I recommend going to the market. You can enlist the assistance of the market woman who sells the leaf.

 
I wash my pot again, making sure it is clean enough to use. On a bowl, I pour my meat inside (goat meat, intestines {shaki, liver, roundabout} and cow leg.

I begin by rinsing meats and fish thoroughly, removing sand and dirt. I then add purmur (cow skin), dry catfish, and stock fish to the pot. The crayfish is ground into a powder, and the meat is seasoned and steamed.

The waterleaf is carefully rinsed and sliced, then added to the pot. The soup is then stirred with a big spoon; following that, I add the periwinkle and a little seasoning. The pot is timed, and the seasoning is adjusted.

I add the pounded afang, scent pepper (yellow pepper), crayfish, and palm oil. The soup is ready, and the semovita is prepared.

 
I tidy up the area around the counter and make sure there is still time to finish serving the soup. The procedure takes a lot of time, but it is necessary for making the soup.

 
I pour my freshly made Afang soup onto the most elegant large bowl I own, which I brought with me. I serve the semovita in little portions inside a clean, small, transparent nylon wrapper. I knot it and place it neatly inside my second elegant bowl.

 
"One minute left." I hear Mr. Collins announcing into his microphone.

 
My pulse is beating with excitement. I rapidly soak the pot I use to make the semovita in water, then take out the iron sponge from my bag and scour the living daylights out of the charred semovita pot. Next, I clean the pot in which I made the soup. I rinse the breakable dish, dampen it with a clean towel, and place it on my annex table, which I had earlier covered with a tablecloth with a white and yellow floral pattern.

 
On one side of the annex table, I set the two large, elegant bowls, two bottles of water, and four clean glass glasses.

 
I maintain a stainless steel basin with water inside near the table's edge for hand rinsing, but I keep the cutlery next to the breakable plate in case none of the judges want to use their hands.

 
The judges’ want us to tell them about our culture through our food. Well, in my tribe, we don’t use cutlery to eat this type of food, or any kind of swallow, as we generally call it, at all. We use our hands; that’s why the water is in the stainless steel bowl at the side of the table.

 
I hurriedly place the pots in the ghana-must-go bag, and I clean anything else I use for cooking that is dirty. According to our lecturer, cleanliness must be observed.

 
After everything is finished, I stand in front of my annex table with the rest of the pupils, only to realize that I am among the last to finish.

 
"At least I finish before the time." I encourage myself.

 
I inspect my apron for stains; thankfully, it's just a small palm oil stain that is barely noticeable.

 
"Time up!" the coordinator announces, ringing the bell in front of him.

 
I let out a deep sigh and smile, mentally patting myself on the back.

1451 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘