23/09/2025
If Harida ever hands you something that looks edible, just fake a seizure and run. I’m telling you from experience, the kind that scars the soul.
Last night, this little girl, my daughter Harida came to me like one undercover spy with a mission. She ran up, clutched something suspicious in her tiny hand, and said, “Papa… take.”
Now, as a loyal Christian and general lover of free meat, I received it with gratitude and no questions asked. I didn’t even pray. Just straight bam! into my mouth and down the hatch. Chewed it like the manna from heaven I assumed it was.
Two hours later, I was minding my own business, ironing my shirt for work (trying to adult in peace), when Harida marched in like a tax collector.
“Papa… meat.”
I paused. My eyebrow did that slow suspicious rise.
“What?”
Then she added pressure:
“Papa… MY meat.”
Ah.
Your meat? The same one you handed over with holy conviction? The one I already committed to eternal digestion?
Next thing I know, this child starts crying as if I snatched her birthright and sold it for stew. Real tears o. Netflix-worthy drama. I was so confused, even Governor Wike’s tailor couldn’t have stitched a better confusion suit for me. I wore it with pride.
Thinking my darling wife would rescue me, I called her for backup. This woman looked me in the eye and said:
“I’ve already heated the soup and packed everything in the freezer. I don’t have energy to microwave anything tonight. You and your meat thief should settle your matter. I’m not involved.”
Ehn?
Not involved?
I’m in the middle of a meat crisis and this woman has declared diplomatic neutrality like Switzerland.
My people, how did I get here? How did I, a once-respected man, become the villain in a grilled-meat origin story?
Lesson learned:
When Harida says “take,” ask what exactly you’re taking, or be prepared to face the wrath of a toddler scorned and a wife off kitchen duty.
Charles Freeman,
Meat Martyr of the Year.
