A Near Fatal Eid

The writer,Hanan-Confidence Abdul

As a young boy, I never thought there could be an event that would take away my attention completely on Eid Day (Sallah Day). My count down to Eid was always accurate like a punch on the equal sign of the calculator. And this feeling of eagerness and preparedness was unaffected as to whether I had “sallah dress” or not. The focus was on food. Food and meat!

For the first time, I’ve never observed my Eid prayers anywhere apart from Anbariya, arguably the last stop of mega congregation for Eid prayers. For this Eid, I’d my prayers in some two-by-four mosque in my vicinity. The feeling of having performed an Eid prayer was conspicuously missing in my heart. I felt really meh.

I’d sallah dress, the latest fashion craze termed as John Mahama or Ablakwa in some circles. But it didn’t last a minute on my body after I returned from the mosque. There was obviously no time to spare for swag.

Even strangely was the fact that I didn’t take a selfie or snap a picture, alone or group. Yet I went to the mosque with my iPad.

I’ve never missed an opportunity to warm my stomach before going to Eid prayers. At least, a bowl of tea with long bread, a way of telling my stomach that Ramadan is done. But when my appetite is even sharp, I usually will straighten my intestines with three small balls of rice, several chunks of meat and unmeasured litres of jolly juice. I would then top up with unused dates from Ramadan.

But on this Eid, after prayers, my head was buried into my laptop until my grandmother reminded me of the food she had kept on my table. I stared at the bowl and returned my eyes onto the laptop’s screen.

I was preparing for an exam in the next few hours on Eid Day. For this course I was preparing to be examined on, I missed all the lectures on it and probably didn’t honour some assignments. So, I was aware that I’d no compensatory or complementary measures to add up. How could the food win?

Fortunately, the exam was cool. It was more of barikada sallah to everyone and me. Even without intensive preparation, RPK could help greatly.

After the paper, I came home to take forty winks (nap), then a memory came to my mind. It was about one dreadful Eid.

It happened when I was probably fifteen or younger. I wanted to disgrace rice. Those days, rice was a privilege. It was “by all means”, TZ, all the time. So, Eid was a special avenue to eat rice and reserve some, obviously in your stomach, till the next Eid.

I would starve myself the previous night, ostensibly to meet all rice squarely the next day. By cock’s crow, I was up, lurking impatiently for the first rice ball victims. I’d cancelled Eid prayers because of my planned battle with rice.

Before everyone trooped back from Eid prayers, I’d cleared thirteen balls of rice and still counting. By 1 pm, there was no space in my tummy again. There was no even a space for a drop of water or even a molecule of air. I struggled to breath.

The urge to drink water suddenly held my neck mercilessly. But there was no way I could drink water. That was apparently suicidal. I restrained the urge but I was increasingly getting thirsty. I pictured my stomach full and sagging out of its compartment. I funnily thought, as a kid, that my stomach could burst if I dare try to quench my thirst.

At a point, I couldn’t just hold it anymore and gave up to thirst. I rushed to the water pot and a feeling of Tasmanian devil occurred to me – lift the pot and put it in your tummy. I reached out for the calabash on the lid of the pot. I stopped after the fifth calabashful and realised that I was acting like a pregnant fish; if I breathe, I’ve to wait for half a minute to breathe again. I never knew breathing could be so discomforting. I was simply choking with the water.

Anyone upon seeing me could tell that I was in rice crises. I realised that rice doesn’t need only water when it’s grown on the clayey farm fields, but needs more water in the stomach.

I felt my Eid was going to turn black because the battle for breathing and the thirst for more water were at each other’s throat in my throat.

Daring death, I topped up with a calabashful of water again. I didn’t know what happened next. But I found myself in the bushes behind my house, trying to get rid of some unprocessed rice. It wasn’t coming. I tried to pee. It wasn’t coming too. I mustered some courage, and walked slowly back home like a pregnant chameleon.

I got home, distancing myself from the beckoning water pots, as though, they were oracles of doom. I couldn’t sit down, stand at one place or lie down. Only walking around like a duck helped a little – some relief.

God being so good, He sent a word to me through a little baby. One of my mum’s friend visited with her baby. Whiles breastfeeding the baby, she vomited. My mum said may be she had been over breastfed, a probable reason for her vomiting.

This scenario and its prophetic words guided and touched my troubled soul. I quickly went behind the house and dipped down my throat three fingers until the sensation to vomit became wildly irreversible. Poooochaaa, here comes the vomitus. In sight, were the murderous rice balls, pieces of legit and stolen meat and gelatinous whatchamacallit with stains of palm oil.

The force with which the vomitus came out could cause a manslaughter. It was like a shuttle. Its sound was deafening and can be liken to the bang of 9/11 attack on WTC.

Immediately after the effortful ejection, I bore down with hurting guts. My eyes were red and dripping off tears. My nose milling out particles of rice with peppery sensation. And my mouth wide opened to the brown earth for saliva to drool out.

Few minutes later, I raised my head. A great relief had come. I could feel an enormous allowance in my stomach as evidenced by somewhat regular breathing pattern. As I walked into the house, like I’d aborted a baby, the urge to drink water came knocking again. I gave my heart to God, briskly went to my mum’s room and supported my head with two pillows, managing uneasily to get normal breaths.

I lay down, sighing “I’m sorry rice” with protruding tummy. In a modified prone position, I was motionless as if I’ve been rescued from the Gulf Of Guinea.

© Hanan-Confidence Abdul