Firewood jollof slaps the hardest.

I can just imagine the sweaty women, out of breath and turning the rice in that giant metal pot that, if by mistake, falls on your foot, you're probably losing a toe, with that long, wooden turning stick that should never be used to hit anybody— but some of them use it on their children. Then there's the smoke from the fire that clings to their clothes like a baby holding the mother's finger so tight.

Firewood jollof slaps the hardest. Or that's what I used to think. 

This particular jollof had everything. The smoke, the pot, the sweaty women, even that leaf that's basically an accessory in the rice because nobody ever eats it— what's it called again? Bae leaf? Oh- B-A-Y. Bay leaf. Yet, this jollof didn't slap as hard. Each spoon I ate was more disappointing than the other. 

This does not prove anything, though. Nigerian jollof is still peak food, not whatever you used to eat there in Ghana. Yes, I'm hating. Nigerian jollof rules!

Okay okay, I'm done. I miss you. I played that Lucky Mensah's 'Old School' song you like so much. You're strange, but I won't judge. But, it's been too long. Come back to me, old school boy. Come back, or I'll come meet you.

She dropped her pen and closed her book. Looking at the tombstone in front of her, she smiled and patted it, like she would a child.

"Bye, old school boy. See you tomorrow."