Indomie kwashiokor

In Nigeria, if someone called you an “indomie”, it can only mean a few things. It could mean that you were one who lasted only a few seconds in a sex bout or it could mean you were highly inexperienced and lacked the know-how in some situations that required historical knowledge.

The slang was popularized by the noodle giant “ Indomie” that made headway in the fast meal provisions back in the day to date, meals that took three minutes or less -from start to finish.

I had come to taste the Indomie noodles for the first time, just about the same time I had tasted the “Meshai” tea from the aboki that nestled right across a night club called Ynot. This was in ‘97 and I cannot say for sure if that place existed today but a lot of detoxing had gone on there long after the club and party-goers were long gone. I am thinking, what the “Dennis diner” did for me was the same role that “Meshai” filled, mopping up volumes of alcohol consumed in the clubs and re-awakening alertness that was needed to make the journey home with or without “Lagos goodies” or “Los Angeles takeaway”.

Against all odds, I had tried the noodles that early morning while waiting for a “drop”. I had opted to use my hands instead and had passed on tea as well. It took two and a half minutes for some spicy, nicely garnished noodle to tumble into one of the plates, saving me a tipsy state of mind.

I guess it was more of a stop-gap

I had been one of the few that had sworn never to have anything to do with those ramshackle, makeshift tea parlors. My reasons laid in the clientele that patronized them and those repetitive silverware that moved from mouth to mouth. The cups for the tea were worse off, with those dentures that were visibly evident from long-standing contact with chattering teeth, and those abnormally smooth rims made possible by delayed sips from chapped lips of customers who needed a lot of soothing.

The chop pots and pans were all funny looking, dirty might not be the right word but worrying and unsafe practices were rife in this little operation. The storage spaces beneath the tables competed with a lot of trash, mostly torn wraps of noodles and slew of broken eggshells that left slimy trails of its remnants, making fine dribbles on the fry bench.

The Meshai attracted all sorts of people, a particular magnet for the third tier. A convergence of some sort, having a big pull on prostitutes, Motor-cyclist “Okada”, homeless, hawkers of all kinds, you name it, they were all hanging out there, each and every, attempting to have a quick meal or some hot tea. I had observed a trend, the poor got their daily doses of carbs with a tincture of proteins- not too bad for the down-trodden.

Health indexes of countries have some causal relationships with the quality of food available to its’ wards. I would think that a day that fast foods replaced a good meal, then doom probably was pending in the nearest future.

The Corona pandemic had me scouting for information on kwashiorkor and marasmus and some presentations of malnutrition, given the impending doom as we see it. A hunger scourge had befallen the nation and no end seemed in sight. A war would be the right word to be mentioned at this point,

A war that an “Indomie” kid like me never saw but armed with only a handful who recanted experiences. I also happened to have my kinsman, who had survived the mayhem by sheer luck and grace.

Ekeruo, my kinsman had been saved by Caritas International. I doubt if they still existed, but they were the front-line charitable organizations that had mandates to identify vulnerable and malnourished kids with kwashiokor and marasmus, with protruding bellies and sunken eyes, those that were too feeble to carry on. These angels had flown these kids to Gabon where they were fed Pamplemousse, Lait condense, Farine de mais, Bean puddings, French pottage. I had even heard from Uncle Mo, a reported account, that the kids enjoyed the oils oozing from the sardines more than the fillets.

Caritas has saved the day, attacking the indices of hunger rightly at its worst.

Ekeruo had outlived many hard times and would probably outlive this Coro-war; by special grace. This time, though a vulnerable one given his delayed intellectual disability, the society at large might not identify him as such.

Ekeruo will be left to make the decisions himself, finding himself between this war where hunger was an evident tool.

The biggest problem now was that hunger hardly would be brazen as it were in 1968, during the war. I doubt if there would be a sea of potbellied and sunken-eyed kids, who stood naked in full glare while flies and ants perched and crawled about their faces and feet. I doubt if there would be those iconic pictures of hunger-stricken kids with countable ribs, squatting side by side with dead mothers. I doubt if those stories told by my Uncle Mo would ever be re-enacted.

Uncle Mo had once told us “During the war, that a time came when the hunger was so unbearable that people scooped up kiddies poop and fried it, after a little garnish with salt and pepper. His stories sounded so much like the long-legged desert crosser who drank his own urine when water was not in sight.

The stories of war regardless were very grim.

That time is almost here or in the nearest future given the times we have found ourselves.

I have looked around for Caritas and other agencies that mimicked operations and I have yet to identify any. I have scouted for federal agencies to see if any had long-term plans to curb the impending hunger doom but I have come short with only a handful across the board, providing cartons of “indomie” noodles as a solution-a fast food now turned staple

We were now the “Indomie” capital of the Sub Saharan.

I have taken notice of a large dominance of Rice-a carbohydrate and yet a larger component of our fight against this war with an arsenal of noodles-a fast food turned staple. I have noticed that the yummy-yummy brand of noodles seems to be the carton of choice, I hear the noodles fill the stomach more and I suspect that the majority in the villages might not have the added access to eggs that the city consumers have.

I see a lot of protruded bellies and sunken eyes if the goal of the palliative is not shifted from mere having “shit” in the belly to nutritional replenishment no matter how small. The government should look across the board to identify the vulnerable ones who need prompt attention as regards body needs and requirements. They should learn from Caritas who knew that malnutrition or starvation was not the lack of food but the lack of adequate food. They should start making provisions for some sort of protein-salt and fish just like in the war days.

I also would ask participating individuals and organizations who have relied on the bulk of these cartons of noodles “seeming big in the eyes” to look past the benefits of a public relations but rather look deep towards the preservation of humanity and mankind.

Attention to nutritional benefits must be key. They should shun a grandiose approach that gives credence to large sacks of rice and pyramids of noodle cartons but embrace other beneficial palliatives-beans, eggs, fruits, vegetables no matter how small.

A re-awakening is needed by each and every one. We can all help meaningfully.

The only reason a warrior lives is to fight. The reason he fights is to win. We can all win if we have these humans in mind.

At It matters period, we champion social discuses that spur people to meaningfully add value to the society. We are in a war and all acts of giving should be targeted to help those that ideally need it, albeit in the rightest of way

It Matters Period

Uchenna Iwualla MD