But this year? Oh, this year has been different! These ugu vines have blessed me with several pots of delicious soup. And they are still growing!
So, as I stood in my garden this morning, contemplating whether to harvest the leaves just one more time before winter arrives, my mind drifted... And just like that, I was transported decades back, across the ocean, to my mother’s little kitchen in our village in Naija.
It is raining cats and dogs! The rain is beating against the zinc roof, creating different rhythms, almost like a gathering of drummers, each playing a different instrument. And inside our tiny kitchen are my mother and me. All my siblings are grown and have left home. It’s just the three of us now: Mom, Dad, and me.
Dad is sitting in the little room by the gate, enjoying the roasted corn and ube (African pear) I have just served him. That’s his appetizer.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, I am wiping rainwater off my face and shaking some off my body. Just running across the open space between the bedroom and the kitchen has left me practically soaked!
I settle down and place a large tray of ugu leaves on my tiny lap, a lap barely big enough to keep the tray in place. With one hand, I grab a generous handful of ugu leaves. In the other, I hold a knife I have just finished sharpening against the stone by the kitchen door.
And then I begin cutting. Just the way I have watched my mother do it all my life. Except there’s one little problem. I cannot cut the leaves nearly as fast as she can! And if I try to match her speed, I might just slice off part of my fingers. Now, we certainly don’t want to mix these beautiful, fresh ugu leaves with my blood, do we?
So I take my time, listening to the music of rain, firewood, and Fufu. While I am busy cutting the ugu, Mom is cooking fufu over the open fire. Oh, the way that woman cooks fufu! She moves with such poise, strength, and rhythm, stirring and working the fufu as though she is dancing to the applause of the rain. Years of practice have made what looks like hard work seem almost effortless.
And don’t forget, I have already done my part! Earlier, I ground the fresh okra and peppers using our wooden mortar and pestle. So the okra, peppers, and crayfish are ready and waiting. By the time Mom finishes cooking and pounding the fufu, the ugu leaves are ready too.
Then comes the magic. Mom begins preparing what Dad fondly calls “ugudindu-mmiri-oku-eghee.” That means she has a special way of cooking the ugu so that the leaves remain beautifully green and fresh-looking, yet perfectly cooked and delicious. Only my mother could make ugboghoro soup quite like that! Oh, that soup!
And while the soup is cooking, we roast more corn and ube over the fire. We eat. We talk. We laugh. Mom tells me stories about the years she and Dad lived in Umunede, or about her childhood and the things she experienced growing up. I listen, sometimes asking questions, sometimes simply enjoying the sound of her voice.
Outside, the rain continues its performance on the zinc roof. Thunder occasionally joins the orchestra. And somewhere between the roasted corn, the crackling firewood, and Mom’s stories, I find my own little entertainment.
I stand up from adjusting the firewood, place both palms over my ears, and begin opening and closing them rhythmically. Suddenly, my mother’s voice, the pounding rain, and the rumbling thunder become one funny, distorted melody. “Nwam-wam! Nwam-wam! Nwam-wam!”
I do it again. And again. Just enjoying the strange music I have created. Oh, the simple joys of childhood! No television. No phone. No internet. Just a mother and her daughter, a warm kitchen, stories from years gone by, and the rain making music on a zinc roof. The Soup That Tasted Like Home…
Suddenly, I catch myself. Wait a minute! I’m not in my mother’s kitchen anymore. I’m standing in my backyard, thousands of miles away, staring at my ugu vines.
But my mind isn’t quite ready to return. Not yet. Because how can I leave that kitchen without remembering the best part? The soup!
I can almost see it now. A steaming bowl of ugboghoro-ugu soup, freshly prepared and served in an oku bowl that keeps the soup hot from the first swallow to the very last drop. And there we are. Mom, Dad, and me. Eating together from the same bowl. The delicious soup glistening with that beautiful, glossy red palm oil, freshly made from the fruits of my father’s special palm tree, nkwu-agirik.
Oh, that palm oil! Rich, red, and beautiful, gracing the soup like the cherry on top. The aroma. The warmth. The taste. The laughter. The togetherness. The kind of ordinary family moment you don’t realize is extraordinary until decades have passed.
And somehow, standing in my garden this morning, I can almost taste that soup again. I can almost hear the rain. I can almost hear my mother’s voice. And for a few precious moments, I am home.
One More Harvest or One More Journey Home?
Now, here I am again, standing before these beautiful ugu vines in my backyard. Still contemplating. Should I cut these leaves and enjoy one more delicious pot of soup before winter arrives? Or should I leave them alone a little longer? After all, these vines have already given me more soup this year than I ever imagined.
But this morning, they gave me something even more precious. They gave me a journey home. A journey across decades, across oceans, and into a little kitchen filled with the warmth of firewood, the rhythm of rain, the aroma of freshly cooked soup, and the voices of two people who shaped so much of my world.
Isn’t it amazing how something as simple as a leaf, a familiar aroma, or a favorite meal can unlock memories we didn’t even realize we were carrying? Sometimes, the things we grow in our gardens nourish more than our bodies. They nourish our memories. They reconnect us with our roots. And they remind us that although time moves forward, some of life’s most precious moments remain beautifully alive within us.
So, what do you think? Should I harvest these ugu leaves one more time, or leave them alone so they can take me on a few more trips home before winter sets in?
Some gardens feed our bodies. Others feed our memories. And the most beautiful ones do both.
Garden & Reflections offers a glimpse into the experiences and everyday lessons that shape me beyond the therapy room. These personal reflections are shared thoughtfully while honoring the professional boundaries of the counseling relationship.