My mother had been buzzing around the house since sunrise, making sure everything was in place for the arrival of Auntie Ngozi. Auntie Ngozi was the family matriarch, notorious for her side-splitting stories and her uncanny ability to turn a quiet gathering into a full-blown carnival.

As I stepped into the living room, I was greeted by the faint aroma of spices and the sound of my mother re-arranging the furniture for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. “Chijioke, come and help me move this chair! It’s blocking the view of the TV where the news is!” she called out, her hands on her hips. I sighed, knowing full well that Auntie Ngozi had a penchant for storytelling that could keep us glued to our seats for hours, but here we were, prioritizing the 'view' over good company.

“Mama, Auntie Ngozi can hear the news from the kitchen. Besides, we all know she will just interrupt to tell us how the headline is related to her neighbor’s goat,” I quipped, grinning as I watched my mother’s eyes narrow in mock irritation.

“If you don’t want to help, you can go and pick up the rice from the market,” she retorted, waving her hand dismissively. I quickly jumped up,there was no way I was about to brave the Lagos traffic just for a bowl of rice. As I shuffled about, I started humming one of Burna Boy’s latest hits. My mother rolled her eyes, “Ewo! Chijioke! Can’t you just sing something that isn’t from ‘that one’?”

Just as I was about to launch into a passionate rendition of “Last Last,” the doorbell rang. “That must be Auntie!” my mother exclaimed, rushing to the door as if the President was paying us a visit. I exchanged a glance with my younger brother, Emeka, who was already grinning like a Cheshire cat. Auntie Ngozi always brought a bag full of goodies, and we knew this time would be no different.

“Auntie Ngozi, welcome!” my mother squealed, opening the door wide. Auntie Ngozi strode in, a colorful gele perched on her head like a crown, a giant smile on her face, and a bag in her hand that seemed to have a life of its own.

“Ehn, my darlings! I brought you all something!” she declared, pulling out a steaming pot of her famous pepper soup, which had a habit of making even the most stubborn of taste buds dance with joy. “And don’t think I forgot the chin chin!” She dug deeper into the bag, retrieving a plastic container that was practically bursting with the crunchy treat. Emeka’s eyes widened, instantly forgetting the dullness of the day.

“Auntie Ngozi, you’re the best!” he shouted, rushing to her side. “What would we do without you?”

“Starve, my dear!” Auntie Ngozi exclaimed, her laughter infecting the room. “Let me tell you, when I was your age, all we had was pap and akara. You don’t know the meaning of a real feast!” She plopped down on the couch, and we all gathered around her, ready for the stories to begin.

For the next hour, Auntie Ngozi regaled us with tales of her childhood mischief, each story punctuated by our laughter. “And then I tied my brother’s shoelaces together,he fell flat on his face in front of the whole village!” she cackled, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

As we sat there, surrounded by the aromas of home-cooked meals and the warmth of family, I realized that these were the moments I cherished most. The laughter, the teasing, and even the chaotic re-arranging of furniture,all of it made life feel full and vibrant.

As the afternoon faded into evening, we dug into the pepper soup and chin chin, our stomachs full and our hearts even fuller. Auntie Ngozi hadn’t just brought food; she had brought joy, reminding us all that amidst the hustle and bustle of Lagos life, it was the simple moments that truly counted.

And as Auntie Ngozi prepared to leave, her bag slightly lighter than when she had arrived, she winked and said, “Remember, my darlings, always keep a little space in your hearts for laughter. Life is too short for anything less!”

With that, we waved her goodbye, and I couldn’t help but think that Saturdays like this were what made our Nigerian hearts dance.