Eat Before You Go
I was telling my mother, “No, I’ll eat when I get there.” when she was trying to give me food.
I was in a hurry to go play with my new friend at his house.
He was the only one who had the new PlayStation, so you can imagine how excited I was when he invited me over.
I didn’t listen to my mum. Got a taxi and left.
I got there, and we played for hours.
It was all fun and games—until I heard his mother call out, “Honey, it’s time for dinner!”
My new friend paused the game, got up, and left the room.
In my mind, he was just going to grab food and be back.
Twenty, maybe thirty minutes passed.
He returned and casually said he’d been having dinner.
I asked if I was getting any, and he said,
“No, my mum didn’t make any for you.”
I was shocked. Embarrassed. Hurt.
What type of mother does that? To a child. I was like 9 years old.
She knew her son had a guest. I was purposely ignored. And what type of friend even does that?
He couldn’t share a plate?
It was in that moment I stopped calling anyone a friend.
It was also that moment that I realized we are all raised differently.
I stopped playing, gave an excuse, and left.
In the taxi ride back, I kept saying to myself,
“Kwame, you don’t listen. You don’t listen.”
I was so happy to see my mum when I got home.
I didn’t tell her what happened—she would’ve gone on and on about me not listening.
Luckily, my plate was still in the fridge.
I warmed it up and finally satisfied my hunger.
Since that day, I eat before I go out.
Birthday parties. Weddings. Funerals.
It’s rare that I don’t.
It just something that stuck with me.
And that friend?
We never spoke again.
It’s been two decades plus.
I saw him recently at a restaurant. Eating.
We locked eyes for a second.
I just walked by—like the stranger I am.