"The Bitter Leaf Soup," Short Story by Abdulrazaq Godwin Omeiza

"The Bitter Leaf Soup," Short Story by Abdulrazaq Godwin Omeiza

The Bitter Leaf Soup 

Dust always settled first in our compound at Mokola, long before evening did. It coated the hibiscus leaves, the low cement fence, the slippers abandoned near doorways. That afternoon, it carried something else with it, the smell of bitter leaf soup drifting from our kitchen, thick and unmistakable.

I knew that smell well. Bitter leaf soup was not an everyday meal. It appeared when something important was happening: a celebration, a visitor of importance, or a matter that needed softening before it could be spoken about.

I found Mama in the kitchen, her wrapper tied firmly, her face calm in the way that meant her thoughts were not. She stirred the pot slowly, not tasting, just watching the surface shift.

“Who is coming?” I asked.

She did not answer at once. “Your uncle, Bode,” she said finally. The name settled between us like a dropped plate that had not yet shattered.

Uncle Bode had not stepped into our house in three years, not since Papa died and the conversations about land began. Before that, he had visited often, laughing loudly, eating heartily, calling Mama “my sister” in a voice full of warmth. After the burial, his voice changed. Words like papers, rights, and family property began to sit where laughter used to be. That was the year Mama started sleeping with the bedroom light on.

By evening, the sky was swollen with rain that refused to fall. The air pressed against the skin. Uncle Bode arrived wearing a crisp shirt and the smell of strong cologne, as if he had dressed carefully for forgiveness.

“My sister,” he said, spreading his arms. “Life is too short for distance.”

Mama greeted him, kneeling down and brought out the tray. We sat on the floor as we always did, knees almost touching. Steam rose from the soup, carrying the deep scent of Iru and smoked fish. Mama served him first, her hand steady.

“This is how soup should taste,” he said gulping down water to attain the sweetness after eating bitter leaf. “You have not changed.”

Mama smiled faintly. “Eat well.”

I dipped my fufu and tasted. The bitterness was rich, balanced, familiar. It tasted like home on days when home still felt whole.

Uncle Bode reached for more. The first cough came small, almost polite. He waved it away and drank water. A few minutes later, it came again, sharper this time. He cleared his throat and laughed.

“Strong soup…” Uncle Bode voiced.

“It is how you used to like it,” Mama replied.

Sweat began to gather on his forehead. His chewing slowed. He shifted his hand, as though the floor had grown uncomfortable.

“Are you okay, Uncle?” I asked.

“My system,” He began, forcing a smile. “Maybe it is not used to this kind of food anymore.”

Mama watched him without expression. “The body changes,” she remarked quietly. “Sometimes it refuses what once nourished it.”

He tried to stand and had to sit again. His breathing sounded heavier now. At last, he excused himself, insisting he would be fine after some fresh air. He left without finishing his meal. Hmm… that is something none of us ever dare to do.

Night had fully settled when the news reached us. He had been taken to the hospital. A severe reaction, they said. Something about fermented ingredients his body could no longer tolerate. Age, the doctor suggested. These things happen. Mama listened, nodding. She packed the leftover soup into a container and placed it in the fridge. The kitchen light hummed softly.

“Mama,” I said, “did you know?”

She wiped her hands on her wrapper. “When your father was alive,” she said, “your uncle loved this soup. He would ask for it whenever he visited.”

She paused, then added, “That was before he decided this house did not belong to us.” I looked at the covered pot on the counter. It looked harmless, ordinary.

“Was it the soup?” I asked.

"I had to do what needed to be done." She said.

What needed to be done?

She turned off the light, and the room fell into shadow.

“Food enters the mouth,” she said from the doorway, “but it meets the heart on the way down.”

Years later, I would understand what she meant. Some people lose their taste for the very things that once sustained them. And sometimes, what nourishes one life unsettles another.

Writer

Abdulrazaq Godwin Omeiza is the current Head of School of Government College Ibadan. He is a writer and have been published on various journals. He is the 2nd place winner of Wakini Kuria prize for children's literature 2025 and the winner Dr Wale Okediran at 70 National Poetry Competition. He aims to use writing to communicate to people.