The uncomfortable reality of growing up in an African household where a woman's cooking abilities can determine whether she's considered marriage material.
I never thought I'd find myself questioning marriage because of something as ordinary as cooking. Yet here I am, almost 21, wondering whether I'll ever feel ready to become someone's wife. And no, it's not because I don't want love. It's because I've started associating marriage with expectations that I haven't even managed to escape in my own family home.
Growing up in an African household, there's an unspoken examination that girls are expected to pass. Can you cook? Can you clean? Can you wash clothes? Can you look after a household? And heaven forbid you don't know how to prepare certain meals. Suddenly, your future as a wife becomes a family discussion. You can be doing so many other things right, but not knowing how to cook seems to cancel out everything else. It's almost as if there's a marriage application somewhere, and the cooking section is compulsory. Unfortunately, I think I've been failing that section for years.
The thing is, I wasn't always someone who avoided the kitchen. I remember being younger and wanting to spend time with my mother while she cooked. I wanted to participate, observe and learn how she prepared different meals. I even remember one particular day when I brought a notebook and pencil into the kitchen because I thought writing down the instructions would help me remember the recipes. I wanted to document the process, almost like I was attending a cooking lesson. But instead of being encouraged, I was shouted at and told that a woman should use her brain to remember things. That was probably the last time I genuinely felt comfortable trying to learn alongside my mother. Something that could have been a lovely mother-daughter experience became something I still struggle to revisit. Even today, when she's in the kitchen, there are moments when I genuinely wish I could stand beside her and learn. But then I remember how those experiences usually end, and I retreat to my room. It's a strange feeling, wanting to learn something but dreading the environment in which you're expected to learn it.
And the comments haven't exactly made things easier. There's always something about how I don't spend enough time with my mother, how other girls are always helping their mothers, how I'll suffer when I eventually have my own home, and how I need to learn because I'm a woman. Sometimes I wonder whether anyone actually understands how much those comments have contributed to my relationship with cooking. I know I'm grown, and I cannot blame my mother for everything. I also recognise that I have responsibilities and need to improve. But I wish someone would understand that constantly making someone feel inadequate doesn't necessarily make them better at what they're struggling with.
Unfortunately, the judgement doesn't stay within the family. I remember my first job, where I was mopping the store floor and apparently doing it differently from how my colleagues expected. They started laughing and explaining to one another how I was doing it wrong. A customer who was buying food noticed the commotion, asked what was happening, and after hearing their explanation, looked at me and made a comment along the lines of, "Who's going to marry someone like her?" The ladies burst into even louder laughter. I remember walking to the storeroom trying so hard not to shed, because I was genuinely hurt. This was my first job, and I still had to return to the shop floor and behave professionally. What makes this story almost ridiculous is that I eventually became one of the employees praised for cleaning the store properly. But imagine having your marriage prospects questioned because of the way you mop a floor. Apparently, even the mop has a say in whether you'll get married!
Perhaps these experiences are why I've started looking at marriage differently. I think about the person I'll eventually be with, his family, their expectations and what happens when they discover that cooking isn't exactly my strongest ability. Will I be judged? Will I constantly hear comments about what I should know by now? Will I spend my marriage feeling like I'm being examined every time I enter the kitchen? And there's another uncomfortable reality: in some of the communities and families I know, a woman admitting that she doesn't enjoy cooking or household duties can attract some very interesting looks. It's almost a taboo. Meanwhile, not knowing how to cook is often treated quite differently when it's a man. But I don't want to make this about men. I'm talking about what I've personally experienced as a woman, and how deeply these expectations have affected me.
The truth is, I'm now seriously considering cooking classes. I want to learn how to prepare different meals, improve my skills and become someone who is comfortable in the kitchen. And I'll be honest: most of the reason is that I want to feel worthy of marriage. I want to enter that chapter of my life without constantly worrying that I'm missing one of the most important things expected of me as a wife. I know how that sounds, but it's genuinely where my mind has gone. Sometimes I even joke that marrying a chef would be the biggest blessing of my life. Imagine having a husband who knows his way around the kitchen! At least dinner wouldn't be another examination. But jokes aside, I am genuinely scared of marrying someone who recreates the same environment I've experienced at home. I don't think I could handle years of criticism in my own matrimonial home after growing up with it already.
I still don't know whether I'll ever look at marriage the way I used to or ever get... I want to believe that I can become a wife without feeling that I have to prove myself every single day. I want to become a better cook, but I also wish cooking hadn't become such an emotionally difficult subject for me. Perhaps someone reading this will think I'm making a big deal out of something so simple. After all, it's just cooking. But sometimes the things people repeatedly say to you become the very things you start believing about yourself. And that's what hurts.
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