Why I Now Fear Sunday Rice

Growing up, Sunday rice was sacred. It didn’t matter how bad the week was — Sunday always brought rice, stew, meat, and that feeling that everything would be okay.

Until I moved out.

Let me explain how Sunday rice betrayed me.

It was my first Sunday alone. I wanted to prove I was a responsible adult. I bought rice, tomatoes, pepper, and even that leaf people put on jollof to feel like chefs.

I was pumped. Music on. Apron tied. Pot on fire.

Then wahala started.

First, I put too much salt. I tried to balance it with sugar — like a confused chemist. It turned into sweet jollof. More like Jollof Dessert.

Then, I burned the stew. Like, fully cremated. I tried to cover it with extra Maggi. What I created was a thick red paste that could be used to cement a house.

But the final heartbreak?

After struggling for hours, sweating, praying, and nearly crying — I opened the pot to serve myself and realized…

I forgot to boil meat.

Sunday rice without meat? That’s abomination.

I stared at the plate, looked at myself in the mirror, and whispered, “You have failed your ancestors.”

Now, every Sunday, I just quietly eat garri. It’s safer. No drama. No betrayal.

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Moral of the story:

If you ever mocked your mum’s cooking while growing up, go and apologize now. Adulting is humbling.

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#FunnyFoodFail #SundayRiceGoneWrong #NigerianStudentLife #KitchenDisaster #RelatableComedy