Kidneys. Eat kidneys. People eat kidneys. Kidneys are eaten by people. People devour the famous bean-shaped organs of a cow.
I am still struggling to come to terms with the fact that cows’ kidneys actually make their way to dining tables. But why? I told my friend this and he gave me a look that suggested that I’m no better than an extraterrestrial toddler who, in the spirit of being adventurous, found himself on earth. And his parents in Mars, after looking for him for so long, resigned to the fact that their child is lost for eternity. The toddler is left with no choice but to be assimilated into the human community. However, even after interacting with people for a long time, the toddler’s conversance of the strange creatures that call themselves humans can only be compared to a Mr Grain Of Sand in the desert world. Insignificant.
So much for my ignorance. Anyway, I found that out during one of my visits to the butchery. A man, who could not be younger than fifty, was being served. He was a jolly one, casually joking with the butchers. ( I stop writing as I realise butcher is too strong a word. I look up for synonyms. Slayer, slaughterer. Em, Thesaurus, no thanks). He had already placed his order for kidneys but on seeing me, he told them to serve me first.
As I waited for them to weigh the meat and all that, I thanked the man for this rare gesture and he said welcome, naturally. His follow-up question threw me off balance.
“Are you married?”
A normal girl would take offence, right? Yet I was amused. And pleasantly surprised too. Here’s the thing, I am frail. Thin. Slim. That, coupled up with a baby face serves to compound an already fluid situation. I have had the rare privilege of putting up with adults talking to me the way you would talk to a child, and children treating me as though I’m their agemate. So you can now understand my excitement when he asked about my marital status. There is someone in the world who thinks I’m old enough to be married. What a relief.
I responded in the negative, trying hard to hide my amusement.
“Do you cook?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I do cook.”
“That’s really amazing. You know what? The food a woman cooks can make a man fall in love with her. I’m not joking! Several years ago, a lady, who is now my wife, invited me to her place. She prepared a delicious, sumptuous, amazing meal! I still recall the taste, I tell you. Cupid’s arrow struck me real hard. Even my daughter cooks a lot, she is married with one child.”
Wow. The only word that managed to leave my mouth.
“Anyway, where do you stay?”
Eh, these questions were getting too personal. Luckily the meat I had ordered was already packaged. I quipped a ‘just around’ while paying. He told me where he lived and I threw an okay at him while hurriedly exiting the butchery, my meat in tow.
A complete stranger talks to you for five minutes and you get to know why he fell in love with his wife, the marital status of one of his children, and where he lives. Yet people like me find it hard to say their name to a person they’ve just met. What makes one person so comfortable narrating their life so vividly to just anyone? Haven’t they ever been betrayed or conned before? Extra food for my already overstuffed thought.
It’s been seven months since I last posted something here 😦 It feels so good to be back! 🙂