Maya had been my best friend ever since we were in Primary 6. That made seventeen years now. Apart for a few quickly-resolved arguments, we got along swimmingly, even to the extent of having a double wedding last year — she to her man, Kwaku, and me to mine, Aaron. Maya had always been an amazing, steadfast friend. I couldn’t ask for anyone better.
There was just one thing… it irked me time and time again: Maya criticized my food all the time; not what I ate, but what I cooked. Every time she came over and I made any local meal for her, she’d snidely comment, “Ah, Shika! As for this one, it’s like there’s no pepper inside. Ei! Are you sure you are Ga?”
What audacity! What right had she to judge my meals, when I made them just the way I wanted to eat them? And for…
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