I still don’t like to talk about that day… but my stomach remembers it very well.

It was a party. A proper party.
Music loud. Plates full. Joy everywhere.

I told myself, “Just taste small.”
That was lie number one.

There was jollof rice smiling at me.
Fried rice calling my name.
Small chops doing backflips on the table.
Chicken looking at me like, “If you don’t eat me, who will?”

I ate like I was preparing for hibernation.

Then aunty brought out swallow.

That was when my stomach whispered, “Please, relax.”
I ignored it.

I ate again.

By the time I stood up, my stomach felt like a packed bus at Ojuelegba, no space, no air, everybody angry.

On the way home, sweat started forming in places I didn’t know could sweat.

I told myself, “It’s nothing. I’m strong.”
Lie number two.

Five minutes later, my stomach started doing gymnastic routines.
Twist. Turn. Somersault.

I ran to the toilet like my life depended on it.

I sat down and began negotiations.

“God, if you save me today, I will never eat like this again.”
My stomach replied with a loud gloooop.

At that point, I was not sure if I wanted to purge or pass out.
I held the sink. I held the wall. I held my destiny.

I thought, “So this is how people leave this world?”

After what felt like three business days, my stomach finally calmed down. Weak. Empty. Humble.

I came out of the toilet a changed person.

Since that day, I respect my stomach.
I listen when it says stop.
And at parties, I now behave like someone that wants to live.

Because enjoyment is good…
But purging your stomach out is not part of the fun. 😭