The first thing that changed in our home at the end of the month was the smell of the kitchen. On the first week, the stove gave off the rich, heavy scent of fried beef and fresh fish; by the twentieth, it was the light, sharp aroma of boiled eggs and chewier strips of pomo simmering in soup. We lived in a crowded two-bedroom apartment filled with the voices of extended relatives and the steady routine of two civil servant salaries. In the middle of it all was my father, a tall, strict man who carried himself with a quiet pride, and my mother, who sang hymns over her cooking no matter how thin the soup became. Yet every month reached that same quiet threshold, a time my family called “20 Hungry.”
In the first week of the month, the house felt light and effortless. The tin of Milo sat proudly on the kitchen counter, the fridge held fresh blocks of frozen fish, and laughter flowed freely across the parlor. When things were good, we dashed out food, tubers of yam, and provisions to relatives and neighbors without second thoughts.
By the twentieth-something, however, you could watch the entire house shift into a quiet, careful strategy.
Although my parents tried their best to shield us from the strain, as a curious child, I picked up on the subtle clues. I overheard hushed, tense arguments about money behind closed bedroom doors. I noticed my mother slipping out to buy just a small case of Maggi cubes from the local shop to manage daily cooking, preserving the larger household stash for when the budget reset.
Yet, even as the beef in the soup gave way to boiled eggs and pomo, our bellies were always full. We were never a family that sipped garri out of desperation. We still had enough food to fill our stomachs, and to any outsider looking at us, you could never tell that money was tight.
The smaller adjustments crept in quietly. The tin of chocolate drink was tucked away, replaced by plain tea bags steeped in boiling water. The regular body lotion ran out, leaving us with thick, blue jars of Vaseline that gleamed on our skin in the heat. New clothes were reserved strictly for special occasions like Christmas or church celebrations. My sister stopped going to the neighborhood salon; instead, she sat between my knees on a low wooden stool while I plaited her hair myself under the dim afternoon light.
Our daily snack money for school dropped from 200 Naira to 100 Naira. You dared not ask for anything extra unless it was explicitly written on an official school booklist. The air in the parlor grew heavier, and my father’s patience shortened. If we made too much noise playing, his deep voice would snap through the room, scolding us to sit quiet. We learned to walk lighter, talk softer, and wait for the calendar to turn.
Yet, when the morning school bell rang, none of that tension followed me inside. My parents guarded my education fiercely. I attended a school that was far above average, surrounded by children from wealthy backgrounds. My parents ensured I had a full lunchbox, a solid bag, a freshly ironed uniform, and every single textbook requested by the teachers. Outside the school gates, I sometimes looked at classmates being dropped off in quiet, air-conditioned SUVs and felt a sudden embarrassment about our crowded apartment or my father’s aging car. But inside the classroom, sitting at my desk, I never felt less than anyone else.
I still think about those late-month evenings, sitting on that low wooden stool with my sister’s head resting between my knees. As the evening grew dim and my father called for the parlor light to be turned off to save power, my hands kept moving through her hair, an open jar of Vaseline resting by my feet. We were waiting for the month to end, sheltered completely from the weight my parents were carrying just to keep us equal to everyone else. In the dark, with the soft smell of Vaseline on my fingers, I knew that whatever we were waiting for, we were safe right where we were.