call me the soul of your heart
Mr. Michael Fagan was going to the dining room to eat, and Mrs. Lucy Fagan was waiting around the corner. She had been thinking how to get him to call her “the soul of her heart” from her.
Reaching the dining room, Mr. Fagan sat down on a low stool at the wooden table. “Wait for me,” said Mrs. Fagan, as she came around the corner.
When they were both seated, almost next to each other, Lucy looked Michael in the eye and said, “When preparing this meal, I washed my hands and stayed in the kitchen until it was cooked. Truly, it is one of my better meals.”
After digesting the words that accompanied the meal, Michael’s eyes widened, blinking and rolling, then quickly calmed them down again as if nothing had happened. A deep breath was in and out of his lungs. If he hadn’t been hungry, he would have sat down and declared satiety. However, he was hungry and wanted to finish the soup quickly. Then, with his right hand, he scooped some soup into his mouth.
Looking closely, Lucy noticed that Michael was enjoying the soup and therefore the time was right to tell him. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “From now on I want you to call me ‘the soul of your heart’.”
No one would expect him to respond while his mouth was full of soup, Mike thought. He hoped to take the brief opportunity when his teeth gnashed on the dried fish to figure out the next answer.
To encourage him to stop thinking about it and proclaim her “the soul of his heart”, Mrs. Fagan snuck up behind Mr. Fagan’s back and took a small bite on his right ear. “Black stinging ant (Agbusi)!” Mr. Fagan yelled and from his mouth came a bubble of chewed cod, bitter leaf and crawfish.
Ignoring the small bite to his right ear – after all, nothing had happened to his left ear, the one he listened with – Mike looked down to take another spoonful of soup, but Lucy had removed the bowl of the good bitter leaf. which contained cod. and river crayfish.
Rubbing his sore right ear, Michael said, “Why did you remove the bowl of soup?”
“Call me the soul of your heart if you want the soup made with my pristine washed hands, that I prepared for you, my love.”
Thinking about it, Michael said, “I give you all my love.”
“Who are you saving your soul for?” Lucy asked as she brought the bowl of soup.
“For me,” Michael replied.
“Selfish,” Lucy said and took the bowl of soup from Michael.
Silent again, Michael regretted having opened his mouth. Thinking and having the conversation in silence was better for him.
“Well, it’s not all bad,” he told himself. The pain in his ear where Lucy had nipped at it was almost gone, and his mind was becoming reasonably calm. He began to see the advantage he would have over Lucy if she declared her soul in her heart. However, the title would have to come with a caveat. Everything in life comes with a condition. She would have to defend the title, every time, and if not, he would immediately retire it. With that decision, Mr. Fagan’s heart began to warm to the idea. If the title meant that much to Lucy, the threat of withdrawing it would make her behave as he wanted.
A few seconds later, Michael had another thought. Many men scratch the top of their heads when they think, but Mr. Fagan was in the habit of rubbing his nose instead. Looking at him, Mrs. Fagan knew that Mr. Fagan was thinking. She wished she could get into his head, not to read his thoughts, but to twist them just the right way. The thought that she was thinking of her proposal infuriated Mrs. Fagan, and she wanted to curse him out, but she decided against it because he might get in the way of how Mr. Fagan saw her. They both waited and the soup got cold.
Michael was taking too long, and Lucy thought that if she dumped all or part of the bowl of soup over his head, it might make him think faster. Her eyes fell on the long, curved spoon, still in the pot, that she had used to stir the soup.
Declare her the sole possessor of your soul and get on with the soup, Mr. Fagan told himself. What surprised Michael was how much better his brain was working now that the taste of the soup and the hunger had faded. He suddenly felt like a man who could scrutinize every decision he made, just like his father, and even Uncle Fabian, whom he loved and respected.
“What would they do?” Michael asked himself. “How would you handle a situation where hunger and soul intersect?” Hungry for what? he sneered at himself. Hungry for a bowl of bitter leaf soup, mixed with dried fish, crawfish, and allspice? Self-loathing seemed to have woken him from his sleep. His mind began to come together like a mound of dirt gradually swept into a corner.
as Mrs. Fagan watched, she saw a stubborn hesitation in Mr. Fagan. “Why the delay?” she told her to Mr. Fagan. “Didn’t you like the soup I made with washed hands when I was wide awake?”
Getting no response, Mrs. Fagan walked around behind Mr. Fagan. As Michael waited for another punishment, Lucy leaned over and placed a tender kiss on his sore ear. As the kiss works its magic, Mr. Fagan relaxed and fumbled for parts of the very body he had delivered.
“No,” said Mrs. Fagan, “call me the soul of your soul of the heart.” Mr. Fagan’s hands fell to his sides as he waited for another painful bite. I hope it’s not in my listening ear, he thought.
