It was a Saturday , the sacred day when my friends and I gathered for our weekly cooking competition. This time, the dish was egusi soup, and the stakes were high.

“No palm oil allowed,” I declared with a dramatic flair that would make a Nollywood actor proud. You see, I had recently watched a cooking show where the host made a big deal about ‘healthy eating,’ and I decided to take it upon myself to be the culinary trendsetter in my circle.

“If you want to win, you better bring your A-game,” Chidi said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Chidi was my main rival, a self-proclaimed ‘soup master’ who had a knack for turning every meal into an extravagant feast. I, on the other hand, was just a casual cook trying to survive the kitchen without burning my house down.

As I prepared my ingredients , ground egusi seeds, vegetables, and the occasional dried fish that seemed to stare at me like it was judging my life choices , I heard my neighbor, Mama Nkechi, humming a tune. Mama Nkechi was an expert in  African cuisine, and I could hear her muttering something about “no palm oil” as if it were an ancient curse. Little did she know, I was about to challenge the very essence of tradition.

The day of the competition arrived, and my friends gathered at my apartment, bringing with them their culinary creations. Chidi strutted in with a pot that looked like it could feed a village. “Behold, the ultimate egusi soup!” he announced, raising his spoon like a trophy. I rolled my eyes, trying to save my confidence for the big reveal of my oil-less masterpiece.

As we all took turns serving our dishes, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. I presented my creation with the flair of a Michelin-starred chef, though I had to admit, it looked more like a science experiment gone wrong. The soup was thicker than expected, and the lack of palm oil made it resemble something out of a horror movie.

“What’s this? Egusi or custard?” my friend Tolu joked, her laughter echoing off the walls. I shot her a glare, but deep down, I knew she had a point.

Chidi’s soup, on the other hand, was a masterpiece , bubbling with colors and rich with flavors. It was like the United Nations of flavors in a bowl. I could almost hear my egusi whispering, “Why didn’t you add some oil?”

As we sat down to taste each creation, a light-hearted banter erupted, and my confidence began to wane. “This soup is so healthy, it might just cure the common cold!” I joked, trying to mask my embarrassment. My friends laughed, but I could see the skepticism in their eyes as they scooped a spoonful of my concoction.

To my surprise, after a few reluctant bites, they all paused, their eyes wide. “Wow, this is… different,” Chidi said, clearly trying to be polite. Tolu, however, was less diplomatic. “Different? More like a crime against egusi!”

In the end, while my egusi soup didn’t win any awards, it sparked a lively conversation that led to a hilarious debate on healthy eating versus traditional cooking. We all laughed so hard that my neighbor, Mama Nkechi, knocked on my door, probably to check if I had poisoned my friends.

As the evening drew to a close, I realized that food was not just about winning competitions or impressing people; it was about the joy of sharing moments with friends, even if those moments were filled with laughter at my expense. And perhaps next time, I’d be a little less adventurous with the palm oil. After all, some traditions are worth keeping , especially when they taste so good!