I live in a Nigerian house with an actual kitchen table — but nothing too fancy, just a small square table and two chairs right there in the middle of the kitchen.  You can sit on the slab if you choose not to sit on the chairs. Anyone in the house is allowed to be in the kitchen for whatever reason: gisting, eating, waiting on food to be prepared, or simply being in there for better internet reception. There was no rule stating who could be in there, when and why they were there. 

We didn’t always have a large kitchen; the one in my childhood home was the size of a matchbox, but I loved it. I loved being in the kitchen or hanging around it while someone cooked. And growing up, I thought I’d love cooking; I experimented with garri cake and was fascinated with my sister’s recipes. She’d bake for friends and whip up all sorts of interesting meals when the holidays came. As limited as my palate was, I’d try to eat everything she cooked as though she was the best chef in the world. But I somehow never learnt to cook.

A few years ago, my mother decided my terrible culinary skill was something to be bothered about, so she drew up a roster of meals she wanted me to make. We had breakfast options, maybe lunch and dinner, too. But despite that, she’d be in the kitchen with me and ask me to hang out with her. But I quickly realised that as much as I love being in the kitchen while people cooked, it wasn’t always my favourite place. Sometimes, the kitchen was presented as a place women had to be in preparation for their future families and imaginary kids. The burden is put on us early enough to know we’d have mouths to feed and people to take care of from our kitchen.

So when I avoided the kitchen because I wasn’t ready to be there, my mother would chastise me and say, “I pray they don’t do back to sender for you”. “Back to sender,” meaning I’d be getting sent back home to my parents house for not knowing how to cook. The older I got, the more I realised my love for the kitchen wasn’t focused on what was being cooked in the kitchen but on the kitchen itself. Most of my eating is based on survival and not because I’m a food lover. I eat as most people do, or maybe worse than most people, because as uncomfortable as it may seem, I have survived on plantain and eggs or bread and tea every day for weeks on end. So then again, why am I always in the kitchen for someone who can’t cook for shit?

I have a long-standing joke where I say I know what I have the most in common with Nigerian men. My common trait with Nigerian men is knowing I’d marry someone simply because they can cook, and as luck would have it, I’ve mostly been with people who can cook. But despite that, I know what I want my kitchen to look like. I have a mood board of my cutlery; I’ve read reviews on how and what works best in kitchens and even have a plan for a future kitchen I know I might hardly use for cooking.

So again, why do I love the kitchen so much? There’s a metaphorical kitchen table that makes space for all kinds of friends and family and people in your life. But that’s what a real-life kitchen table is to me. A place where you walk into and offer a helping hand over a conversation about how the day went and an update on everything happening in your life. I know people say, “too many cooks spoil the broth,” but not in my kitchen because in my kitchen, not everyone’s cooking the broth. My kitchen is simplistic, not for effort or to prove what you’re doing. It’s not a place to be in because you have to be there; it’s a place to walk in and make yourself as comfortable as possible because you know you’re welcome there. 

In many relationships I’ve been in and experienced, both platonic and romantic, the kitchen has played a massive part in how much of it has been nurtured. Conversations had while chopping up vegetables or with my hands in water doing dishes (the greatest irony of my life is how much I enjoy doing dishes). A kitchen could be hot as hell, and I’d still want to be in or close to it with someone I care about. I’d still want to be close to them while they work out of it; I’d still want to participate while they work or need my help. 

Now, I understand why people love to cook. The kitchen isn’t a place that should be hated. A kitchen should be welcoming, hot, functional and therapeutic. There’s a part in Michelle Obama’s The Light We Carry that says, “Not all of the people who sit at my Kitchen Table know one another well; some have never even met. But collectively, they are powerful.” I want a kitchen where everyone knows they’re welcome to cook up whatever they want and feel comfortable trying a menu, messing it up and trying again. 

One of the greatest forms of love I’ve experienced has happened in and from the kitchen. I once cooked a bad meal for my dad, and him teaching me step-by-step how to cook the meal from start to finish. Another core memory is my dad staying on a call with me while I bought ingredients and recreated some of his most delicious recipes and times when we spent Sunday afternoons meal prepping. 

While I understand that a kitchen is designed to be the user’s space, I’ll always appreciate a kitchen that makes room for others: a kitchen where others are welcome and one where many memories are made.