Egusi soup and the hunger to begin again

The plate had sat empty for a while before Anna finally noticed it.

It was on the small kitchen table, white ceramic with a thin crack near the rim, clean except for a faint orange stain that palm oil never seemed to forgive. The apartment was quiet, not the sharp, expectant silence of waiting for something to go wrong, but the softer kind. The kind that settles after a door has closed and stayed closed.

She stood there longer than necessary, looking at the plate as though it might explain something to her.

Once, emptiness frightened her. It made her uneasy, restless. It felt like a warning. In the past, an empty plate would have sent her mind spiraling. Should I eat something else? Did I eat enough? Why do I feel unsatisfied? But now, standing barefoot on the cool tile, the emptiness didn’t carry panic with it.

It felt complete.

Her stomach growled, low and insistent, and she turned toward the counter. She hadn’t eaten all day. But she knew the difference between hunger and urgency now. She knew some things needed to unfold slowly, deliberately, without pressure.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the grocery receipt from earlier that afternoon. It was crumpled and soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. She smoothed it out with her thumb and read it again, even though she already knew what it said: ground egusi seeds, palm oil, onions, crayfish, spinach, pepper, seasoning cubes, chicken stock.

She remembered standing in the grocery store aisle, pausing longer than necessary in front of the shelves. No one was rushing her. No one was waiting in the car. No one was calling to ask why she was taking so long. She had moved slowly, deliberately, choosing what she needed without apology.

That alone felt like a small victory.

Cooking had always been her way back to herself, though she hadn’t always understood why. As a child, she remembered watching women in the kitchen, how they moved with purpose, how conversation flowed easily over the sound of stirring spoons and simmering pots. Food had been more than sustenance. It had been grounding, anchoring, a way of creating order when the world felt unsteady.

She placed a heavy pot on the stove and poured in palm oil, watching it spread thickly across the bottom. The oil caught the afternoon light, glowing a deep red-gold. She turned on the burner and waited for the heat to rise, listening to the soft hum of the flame.

She peeled an onion slowly, the papery skin crackling between her fingers, and chopped it with care. The knife hit the cutting board in a steady rhythm. There was no rush. No background tension. Just the sound of her own movements fills the space.

When the onions hit the hot oil, they sizzled loudly, releasing a scent that immediately softened something in her chest. She added ground crayfish next, stirring gently so it wouldn’t burn. Steam rose, fogging her glasses, and she laughed under her breath, pushing them up with the back of her hand.

Cooking alone felt different now.

Before, even solitude had been crowded. Her mind used to be noisy, full of rehearsed conversations and imagined arguments. She had cooked distracted, checking her phone constantly, bracing for interruptions. Silence had never been truly silent; it had been loaded with anticipation.

Now, the air stayed still, quiet.

She reached for the bowl of ground egusi and mixed it with warm stock, forming a thick, pale paste. Her grandmother’s voice surfaced in her memory, calm and firm. “Don’t rush egusi. If you rush it, it will punish you”.

Anna smiled to herself.

She added the egusi slowly, stirring continuously, watching the soup thicken almost immediately. She lowered the heat and stayed with it, refusing the urge to step away. She had learned the hard way what happened when you abandoned things too soon.

As the soup simmered, she washed her hands and poured herself a glass of water. She leaned against the counter and drank slowly. Her phone lay face down nearby. No notifications. No demands. No reminders of who she used to be.

She thought about hunger, how people assumed it was always physical. But she had known hunger that no meal could satisfy. Hunger for reassurance. Hunger for consistency. Hunger for a version of love that didn’t feel like a test she was constantly failing.

There had been a time when hunger had made her desperate. It had convinced her to stay in places that hurt, to accept scraps disguised as affection. Hunger had whispered that loneliness was worse than pain, that quiet was dangerous, that being alone meant something was wrong.

She knew better now.

The soup bubbled gently, pulling her back to the present. She added pepper, then salt, then a single seasoning cube, tasting carefully after each addition. She trusted her tongue instead of doubting it. That trust felt small, but it was new, and it mattered.

She chopped fresh spinach and folded it into the pot, watching the leaves wilt instantly, bright green against the rich base. The smell was comforting, familiar. She turned off the stove and stepped back, satisfied.

Serving herself felt ceremonial.

She scooped the soup carefully into a bowl, wiped the rim, and carried it to the table. Steam rose in slow spirals. She sat down and rested her hands on either side of the bowl, letting herself pause before eating.

The first bite was warm and grounding. The egusi was smooth. The seasoning balanced, the spinach tender. She closed her eyes briefly as she chewed, letting the food do its work.

She ate slowly, deliberately, aware of her body in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. There was no rush to finish, no background anxiety urging her forward. Just the simple act of nourishing herself.

As she ate, she reflected on how hunger had changed shape over time. Once, hunger had felt like a threat, a force pushing her into decisions she didn’t want to make. Now, hunger felt like information. A signal. A guide.

She scraped the last bit of soup from the bowl and leaned back in her chair, exhaling softly. Her stomach felt full, but more than that, she felt settled.

She carried the empty plate to the sink and rinsed it under warm water, watching the last streaks of oil disappear. The plate was clean again, waiting.

The kitchen fell quiet.

Anna dried her hands and stood still, listening. The silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt intentional. Chosen.

She realized then that hunger had never been her enemy. It had been trying to tell her something all along. When something was missing. when something needed attention, when it was time to change. She had just needed to learn how to listen without panicking.

The empty plate sat on the counter, clean and patient.

This time, emptiness didn’t mean lack.

It meant closure.

It meant space.

It meant possibility.

And whatever she chose to make next on that plate, in her life would be entirely her own.