On Sundays, We Eat Rice and Lie

We sat, We ate, We pretended.

The sun on Sundays came like it was shy. It didn’t beat the ground like it did on weekdays. It tiptoed into the compound, spilling across the cement slowly, like it had been warned not to disturb. It warmed the top of our gate, slid across the iron bars of the burglary proof, danced on the back of our aunt’s mirror as she powdered her face. Everything on Sundays took its time.

Except the noise in our house.

Our house was never truly quiet. It knew how to pretend. But it was the kind of quiet with layers. Radio prayers in the background. The sound of someone rinsing a pot with cold water. The clatter of a spoon against the side of a pot to check if the food was burning. It was always rice.

We never left for church on time, but we always pretended we were about to. Someone would still be ironing, someone else tying their scarf, another still in the bathroom rinsing their feet. My father would shout from the sitting room, tapping his wristwatch like a threat. Nobody listened. We all had our own pace. The walk to church was quiet. Nobody wanted to sweat before we even got there.

Church was loud. Church was long. Church was predictable. We came back hungry. Or we acted like we were. Most of the time, we had already eaten bread and egg, or something small. But for some reason, Sunday rice had to come with an empty stomach.

We didn’t eat rice on Sundays just because we liked it. We ate it because it had become a rule. Even when money was tight. Even when people weren’t speaking to each other. Even when the roof leaked or the light didn’t come. White rice or jollof. Sometimes fried rice if there had been a party the night before and somebody smuggled home a cooler of leftovers. But there was always rice. Sunday without rice was not a Sunday.

My father said rice was a way to mark time. He said if we had rice on Sunday, then we hadn’t lost the week. That was his way of checking that the world hadn’t shifted too far off course. But everything was already shifting.

The food was never ready on time. We would sit around the kitchen, peeling pepper, arguing, fanning the firewood stove. Something was always missing. The Maggi would finish. The kerosene would run out. Someone would forget to soak the rice. But somehow, it still got done.

Once, my father brought home a different kind of rice. It didn’t smell the way our usual rice smelled. It didn’t stick together. It was long and thin. He said it was better, more expensive. We hated it. We said it tasted like nothing. He didn’t buy it again.

Another time, Teni forgot the rice on fire and it burned. We picked through the grains, removing the black bits one by one. Nobody shouted at her. We just ate in silence.

Rice forgave us. Rice never argued back. Rice understood.

But rice was not the point. The point was the table. The sitting down. The pretending. The way everyone tried to be okay for a little while. Sunday rice was the setting, not the story.

It was in the way my father would clear his throat before asking Teni why she came back at 11:47 p.m. the night before. The way she would respond with her mouth full and eyes cast downward, “It was a worship night. We lost track of time.”

It was in the way I once saw Korede pocket N500 from the prayer offering bowl during evening service, then cry extra hard during the altar call. When I told him I saw, he looked me in the eye and said, “It’s God’s money. It’s in God’s work.”

It was in the way our aunt smiled too hard on the Sundays she was going to meet her married boyfriend at Protea. She’d eat slowly, as if stretching the moment before sin. And after the first spoonful, she’d always sigh and say, “This rice sweet, ehn? Peace of mind is sweet.” Nobody ever asked what kind of peace.

The Sunday before Sikiru came, we had white rice with stew and one egg sliced into four. My father cut the egg. He said fairness was the bedrock of a good home. My sister Teni hissed. She said eggs were not meant to be divided like house rent. She scooped her rice with a frown on her face and sprinkled extra pepper on it like she was punishing the food.

That was when my father asked Teni questions about where she went the night before. He waited until she had food in her mouth. She answered calmly, like she had rehearsed it. She said she had gone for a night vigil. We all knew she hadn’t, but nobody said anything.

Korede, my younger brother, didn’t eat much that day. He said the rice had no taste. He scraped his spoon against the plate to make a point, then left the room before anyone could tell him to come back. My aunt wore church clothes the whole day. She didn’t say why. She just kept walking past the front door like she was waiting for something to happen.

It did.

That evening, Sikiru arrived.

No suitcase. No knock. Just a black nylon bag with something heavy inside, and a frown on his face like someone owed him money. Nobody told me who he was. My aunt looked at him and looked away. My father said, “Sikiru will be staying with us for a while,” and that was the last explanation anyone gave. Teni didn’t greet him. She stared at his shoes and walked past.

Sikiru didn’t speak to anyone. He dropped his nylon in the corridor and sat on the wooden bench near the kitchen. He didn’t ask for food. He didn’t greet. He just sat, staring at the wall like it had insulted his mother.

People said he had stronghead. But not the type that made you skip chores or talk back when scolded. This was the kind of stronghead that sat deep in the bones. The kind that didn’t need to be loud to ruin a place. It showed in the way he walked. Like the ground wasn’t firm enough for him. In the way he responded to instructions. Like every word annoyed him.

My father said it was trauma. That word people used when they didn’t know the real story. My aunt said he was possessed. She said children like that came into homes to scatter them. Teni said nothing. But I saw the way she moved her slippers from beside his own, like defiance could spread through rubber soles.

The first Sunday after he came, we cooked jollof rice. Thick, smoky, and peppery. My aunt said it was because we had a guest. My father said it was a way to welcome Sikiru. But everybody’s mouth was tight. There was no laughter. Just the sound of plates hitting the table and spoons scraping too hard.

Sikiru ate his rice with fried plantain. He said soft plantain was for people who liked disappointment. He said food should challenge your teeth. My aunt asked if he wanted more. He shook his head like she had offended him. Then he stood up, rinsed his plate, and walked out to sit under the mango tree.

That mango tree saw everything. Fights. Quiet tears. The day Teni’s skirt got stained and she screamed. The time Korede refused to go to school and my father beat him till the broom broke. Now it saw Sikiru. Every day. Sitting. Breathing like it was a task. Watching the rest of us pretend not to notice that something had shifted.

Nobody said he was our brother. They didn’t have to. We knew.

He looked like our father, but in the stubborn parts. The jaw that never unclenched. The forehead that never smoothed. The kind of resemblance that wasn’t safe to say out loud. Our mother had died years ago, and nobody ever brought her up when Sikiru was around. That was how we knew. If it wasn’t true, someone would have rushed to correct it.

Months passed. The rice continued. But things kept cracking. My father told Sikiru to sweep the compound one morning. Sikiru said, “You sweep it.” He didn’t raise his voice. He just said it and walked inside. My father didn’t speak for two days.

Then came the Sunday that everything truly began to spoil.

The gas finished while the rice was on fire. The rice was soft but not ready. The stew had too much salt. The kitchen was hot and full of smoke. My aunt slapped the spoon out of Teni’s hand. Teni said, “You don’t have sense.” My father walked out of his room and said we should all pray. Sikiru laughed from the corridor. It was a slow, amused kind of laugh. Like he was watching a film.

Nobody ate together that day. Plates were served and people took them to different corners of the house like strangers at a wedding. The only sound was chewing and the creak of wooden doors. Even the radio pastor was silent that day.

And then one Sunday, my father returned from church with oil on his forehead and a small bottle of anointing water. He said the house needed cleansing. He called us all to the parlour. He asked us to hold hands. Sikiru refused.

He said, “This thing you’re calling spirit is just hunger and bitterness.”

My father told him to shut up. Sikiru said, “Make me.”

Then he slapped my father.

Nobody moved.

My father didn’t fall. He just stood there, holding his cheek like it belonged to someone else. The slap was not the loudest sound in the room. It was the silence after. My aunt screamed. Teni covered her mouth. Korede walked into the kitchen and didn’t come out for hours.

That night, Sikiru packed his nylon bag and left. Nobody tried to stop him. My aunt poured salt on the doorstep. She said it would purify the air. The next morning, she said she was going on a fast. She didn’t say when it would end.

Teni left two days later. No goodbye. Just a folded note on the table that said, “I’m not doing again.” My father started spending nights at church. Korede stopped eating rice altogether. He said the taste reminded him of unfinished business.

The next few Sundays were quiet. There was food, but no ceremony. People took their plates and ate like survivors, not family. The pot was never finished. The stew lasted too long. Even the salt tasted different.

One day, I boiled white rice with a little oil and salt. Nothing else. I wasn’t trying to remember anything. I just needed to eat.

Korede came out of his room and sat down.

“Were we ever happy?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I just passed him the spoon.

He took a bite. Then another. Then he said, “I think I miss the sound of people pretending.”

Sometimes I sit and I think of that slap.

I think of the mango tree.

I think of Sikiru’s silence and how loud it was.

And I think of us, sitting at the table, holding spoons like weapons, lying through our teeth with every bite.

We were not fine.

But on Sundays, we ate rice and acted like we believed.