The Strongest Type of Witchcraft

Dear Diary – this is the Strongest Type of Witchcraft

21 July, 2024

If you know me, you’d know I don’t believe in witchcraft. However, recently, I have come to accept that even though I do not believe in witchcraft, there are two unmistakable signs that you have encountered a witch in human form. These witches, mind you, don’t need brooms to fly at midnight. They reveal themselves with phrases like “I have said what I have said” or “What I have said, I have said.” No royal blood or naval fleet, not even ants as armies; still, if you encounter these types of people, run – and I mean run for your dear life – at your earliest opportunity.

People of God, this is what happened today!

It all started yesterday, where I was supposed to be minding my business and visiting my friend on this sunny afternoon that the heat was competing with the one God sent on Jonah in Nineveh. I decided to visit my French friend, Yoann, who has been living in Portugal for years.

Yoann is known for two things: his Poulet à la bretonne (that he compared to my unrivalled Nigerian jollof) and his stubbornness. I am not too certain, but in the little time I have known Yoann – which is a little bit less than one week – he already let me know that as a Breton, their motto is no-retreat-no-surrender. Little did I know, I was about to witness the ultimate showdown of Portuguese saudade and French stubbornness.

As I arrived, I found Yoann arguing with his Portuguese neighbour, Senhor Silva, about whose food was superior. Senhor Silva, a proud cook of bacalhau à Brás (basically shredded codfish with matchstick potatoes), was waving his wooden spoon like a fairy wand, insisting that Portuguese cuisine was the pinnacle of culinary art.

Yoann, not one to back down, crossed his arms and declared, “I have said what I have said. Poulet à la bretonne (another chicken delicacy) is the best, and that’s final!”

Senhor Silva, eyes bulging with the intensity of a thousand Fados, replied, “What I have said, I have said. Bacalhau is unmatched!”

Look at me in the middle of what is not my business and I was forced to smile. The most painful part was to be the umpire. I mean, can I just be un-invited from all I just witnessed right now?

Like, I was witnessing a French and a Portuguese in a culinary standoff. The usual one I know that I am ever prepared for is Ghana and Nigeria, nothing prepared me for this! People of God, let me tell you, it was like watching two forces of nature collide. I didn’t want to intervene, but I had to be polite and I was looking for the best escape route to leave and never return. So, in my best effort that now backfired on my head, I suggested a friendly cook-off to settle the matter. They both turned to me, their eyes gleaming with the fire of their respective cuisines and then RE-INVITED ME. LORD HAVE MERCY! Don’t you people have eyes? Like right now, can I un-know you both, this minute? But, I stood there, smiling like a sheep led to the shearers!

And thus, the Great Poulet-Bacalhau Cook-Off was born.

Senhor Silva was bold to tell the next neighbour and Yoann, who I thought was a very reserved scientist discovering the next planet, invited neighbours too. And me, who wasn’t a neighbour, was called to come and taste the dishes. ME, A NIGERIAN!

Today, after church was the cook-off. The air was thick with the smell of spices, fish, chicken, and a hint of impending doom. Neighbours gathered, bets were placed, and I, armed with nothing but my spoon, was appointed as the judge.

Yoann’s preparation was a sight to behold. He was using the finest imported crème fraîche from France. He brought out his secret spice blend, and even rocked this medley of French playlist to “infuse the dish with good vibes,” as he put it. Senhor Silva, not to be outdone, had his bacalhau shipped directly from the Algarve, and was singing Fado tunes to his dish, serenading it like a long-lost lover.

As they cooked, the crowd was treated to a spectacle. Yoann danced around his pot, stirring and adding ingredients with the flair of a seasoned magician. Senhor Silva, on the other hand, was conducting his dish like an orchestra, each sprinkle of salt and drizzle of olive oil a precise note in his culinary symphony.

Then came the twist. Just as the dishes were nearing perfection, Yoann’s pot suddenly erupted in flames. Panic ensued, but Yoann, ever the quick thinker, grabbed a nearby metal lid and covered the flames, completely putting out the fire. The crowd gasped, then burst into applause as Yoann bowed dramatically, a bit of soot on his face but a triumphant smile on his lips.

Senhor Silva, not to be overshadowed, decided to flambé his bacalhau, adding a theatrical blaze to his presentation. However, his enthusiasm got the better of him, and he ended up setting his own apron on fire. The crowd roared with laughter as Senhor Silva, with the help of his wife Dona Maria, extinguished the flames with a bottle of vinho verde.

Finally, the moment of truth arrived. As I tasted each dish, I felt the weight of two nations on my taste buds. Yoann’s Poulet was fiery and flavourful, each bite a journey taking me back to the bustling history of Bretons and the Britons. Senhor Silva’s bacalhau was equally divine, a creamy, comforting dish that sang of the sea and the heart of Portugal.

As I finished the last bite, both contestants leaned in, waiting for my verdict. The crowd held its breath. I cleared my throat and, in my best diplomatic voice, said, “Both dishes are incredible. But the true winner is the friendship between our cultures.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by laughter and cheers. Yoann and Senhor Silva shook hands. Finally agreeing that maybe, just maybe, both French and Portuguese cuisines could coexist in delicious harmony.

So, dear diary, the next time you encounter someone who declares, “I have said what I have said,” remember my advice. Whether it’s about food or anything else, find the humour, embrace the cultural richness, and if all else fails, suggest a cook-off. But always remember: these people are certain of what they say, and they will go to great lengths to prove they’re right. Even the devil cannot win them in a contest.

But you know the one that pained me the most, dear diary? WHERE IS THE PEPPERRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Yours Truly,

Did you read any of the previous posts? See

Golden buzzer – https://oluabikoye.com/blog/my-golden-buzzer/

Unrepentant Kissers – https://oluabikoye.com/blog/the-unrepentant-kissers/

God my Flatmate –  https://oluabikoye.com/blog/god-my-flatmate/

 Raguel – My Guardian Angel- https://oluabikoye.com/blog/raguel-my-guardian-angel/

Confession – https://oluabikoye.com/blog/ash-wednesday-valentines-day-confession/

My Mum remains the unbeatable champion of all time – https://oluabikoye.com/blog/my-mum/