From Bones to Broth
In the shadow of the noodle factory, where the scent of bones and broth wafted through the air, two rats, Kofi and Ama, grew up with a fascination for the ancient art of noodle-making. They’d scurry through the alleys, watching as workers hauled in great bins of bones, the remnants of feasts past.
“Kofi, my friend,” Ama would whisper, “do you think they’ll ever tell us the secret of the bones?”
Kofi’s eyes would gleam in the dark. “I think, Ama, that the bones hold the stories of our ancestors. The stories of love, of struggle, of life.”
As they grew bolder, the rats crept closer, hiding behind stacks of crates to observe the simmering vats, the slow-cooked reduction of bones to broth. They’d sniff the air, their whiskers twitching with wonder.
“Ah, Kofi, can you smell that? It’s like the essence of memory!”
And then, the moment of truth: the mixing of the broth with flour, the kneading of the dough, the shaping of the noodles. Kofi and Ama watched, entranced, as the workers coaxed life from the bones, transforming them into tender strands of nourishment.
One night, a worker, noticing the rats, offered them a scrap of noodle. Kofi and Ama savored the flavor, their eyes locked in understanding.
“This, Ama, is the taste of our history. The taste of love and struggle, of life and death.”
Ama nodded, her paws waving in reverence. “We must come back, Kofi. We must honor the bones, and the stories they tell.”
And so they returned, night after night, watching as the noodles were crafted from the bones of the past, carrying the stories of generations into the present. For Kofi and Ama knew that in the making of the noodles, they were witnessing a sacred ritual, a celebration of life, death, and the enduring power of memory.
ii
As the noodles emerged from the shaping machines, Kofi and Ama watched with bated breath as they were carefully collected and placed onto wooden drying racks. Their eyeballs followed the noodles as they were carried to the packaging area, where workers with deft hands and precise movements wrapped them in plastic nylon packets, adorned with intricate designs and symbols.
The packets were then placed into cartons, to protect the delicate noodles on their journey to distant lands. Kofi and Ama marveled at the care and attention given to each carton, as if the workers were handling precious relics.
As the cartons were sealed and labeled, the rats sensed a sense of pride and accomplishment emanating from the workers. It was as if they knew that the noodles they crafted would soon become part of someone’s story, a thread in the lineage of memories to be recollected.
Kofi and Ama scurried closer, their ears perked up, as they heard the workers whisper stories of the noodles’ destinations.
“These ones are bound for the Ikare, where they’ll warm the bellies of travelers.”
“Those ones will sail across the seas, to as far as Ajaokuta, and some parts of Benue State. “
Kofi and Ama’s eyes met, and they knew that they had to follow the noodles, to witness the stories they would tell. And so, they scurried out of the factory, into the unknown, carrying with them the memories of the bones, the broth, and the ancient art of noodle-making. These were all they needed for the journey ahead.
iii
As the cartons of noodles left the factory, Kofi and Ama followed, their curiosity piqued. They scurried onto the trucks, hiding among the pallets, as the drivers ignited their energies and the off-loaders signaled their reverses were good to go on the semi-tarred streets.
The rats watched as the wagons stopped at bustling Oke-Arin market, where wholesalers with keen eyes and quick smiles inspected the deliveries.
“Ah, Oga na only dis one una come give us?” The first buyer exclaimed.
“Madam, yes ooo. By next tomorrow factory go complete your order.” The driver responded.
“Okay. No wahala. Sha drop hundred cartons make we teik sell market!” The woman added.
Kofi and Ama marveled as the Aboki beside the woman expertly arranged the packs of noodles in his kiosk, enticing passersby with the savory aroma of the noodles. They listened as the wholesalers regaled customers with tales of the noodles’ origins, of the ancient art of noodle-making, and the love that went into every strand.
As the days passed, Kofi and Ama found themselves in the midst of a grand adventure, traveling to distant cities, villages, and streets. They saw retailers with creative flair, who crafted eye-catching displays and concocted tantalizing dishes to showcase the noodles.
In a small village, they met a woman who wove the noodles into a majestic noodle-bowl, spanning a steaming bowl of broth. In another city, they saw a street vendor who tossed the noodles with precision, creating a symphony of flavors and textures that drew in crowds.
Kofi and Ama realized that the journey of the noodles was not just about delivery, but about connection. The wholesalers, retailers, chefs, and vendors were all storytellers, weaving the noodles into the fabric of their communities. And the rats, humble witnesses to this grand tale, knew that they had become a part of something greater — a testament to the power of tradition, community, and the enduring magic of a simple strand of noodle.
Iv
As the sun began to set on the bustling streets of Lagos, Amaka, a mother of two, made her way through the crowded market, her eyes scanning the stalls for the perfect pack of noodles. Her children, Chinedu and Nneoma, trotted beside her, their eyes wide with excitement.
“Mummy, can we get the onion flavour?” Chinedu asked, tugging on her wrapper.
Amaka smiled, “Let’s see. Ah, there it is!” She pointed to a stall, where the wholesaler held up a pack of noodles, adorned with the familiar design.
The children cheered as their mum haggled with the wholesaler, their faces lighting up with joy. Finally, the carton of noodles was hers, and she handed it to Chinedu and Nneoma to carry.
As they made their way home, the children couldn’t stop grinning. They lived in a dense neighborhood, where kids played football in the streets, spun used tires across the road, and played ten-ten on the sidewalks. The air was thick with the smells of cooking oil, jollof rice, and Suya.
On turning onto their street, the children’s friends called out, “Nneoma! Chinedu! What did you buy?” Nneoma tried to lift the carton all by herself, and the group cheered, “Noodles! Noodles!”
Amaka smiled, watching her children’s faces glow with excitement. She knew that the noodles would become more than just a meal — it would be a moment of joy, shared with their family and friends.
As they approached their small apartment, Chinedu and Nneoma raced ahead, the carton held high, their laughter echoing through the hallway. Amaka followed, her heart full of love and gratitude for this simple pleasure, this taste of tradition and community, that brought her family together.
V
Kofi and Ama scurried through the walls of Amaka’s apartment, and it became clear that it was a humble home, filled with the scent of hope and hustle. Amaka, a primary school teacher, and Adelakun, a brand strategist, worked tirelessly to provide for their family, their dreams fueled by the belief that their children would have a better life than theirs.
The worn sofas, the faded curtains, and the small kitchen, where Amaka carefully prepared meals to stretch their meager budget were all their eyes could capture from a glance. Ama saw the children’s room, filled with hand-me-down toys and clothes, but also with books and dreams.
In this two-bedroom apartment, was a left-behind sense of harshness that accompanies survival in Lagos. The struggle to make ends meet, the hustle to keep hope alive. Kofi was quick to spot the irony — that despite the struggle parents have to go through, they still held onto the belief that their children would have a better life, if only they worked hard enough.
And so, they toiled, day and night, to provide for their family. Amaka graded papers late into the night, while Adelakun worked on his laptop, seeking new opportunities. And in the midst of it all, the carton of noodles sat on the kitchen counter, a symbol of their daily struggles, but also of their hopes and dreams.
For in this neighborhood, where the sounds of hustle and hardship filled the air, the carton of noodles was a unifying factor. It was a reminder that, despite their differences, they all shared the same struggles, the same hopes, and the same dreams.
So, as Kofi scurried through the walls, he realized that the carton of noodles would be a source of comfort, a reminder that he and Ama were not alone in the struggle. The carton was a small thing, but it was also a symbol of the resilience of the human spirit, a testament to the power of hope and hustle in the face of adversity.
Vi
While Kofi and Ama stingily stole a view of the kitchen, Amaka began to cook the noodles, her hands moving with a flourish as she added spices and vegetables to the pot. She was a master of improvisation, using cheap and local ingredients to recreate recipes she had seen on Instagram. Her children, Chinedu and Nneoma, hovered around the kitchen, their eyes wide with excitement.
“Mummy, can I taste it? You know you are the best mum in the whole wide world? Shebi you know?” Chinedu inquired with his face lit up as one awaiting only a positive response.
Amaka smiled, handing them each a steaming hot plate of noodles. Their friends too were not left out in the noodle party with the Ajayis.
The aroma of the noodles wafted through the air, enticing Kofi and Ama to venture out of our hiding places. We scurried across the cemented floor; our eyes fixed on the fallen noodles that had escaped the children’s grasp. We risked our lives to pick up the tasty morsels, our paws barely avoiding the swishing broom.
As we savored the noodles, we couldn’t help but compare Amaka’s cooking skills to the hurried methods of the factory workers.
Amaka’s noodles were a symphony of flavors, a testament to her patience and love. The factory noodles, on the other hand, were mass-produced and lacking in character.
Both Kofi and Ama having tasted Amaka’s noddle nodded in agreement — her cooking was a true masterpiece. And as we scurried back into the shadows of the new truck from the noodle factory, we knew that we would surely be a part of the unfolding history of stories made from bones.
