The Continental Porridge

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

IT starts
with the grand, golden puffery
of the tin,
a fortified powder
promising growth,
bone strength,
and a collective security
that smells faintly
of vanilla.

But someone used
lukewarm water
from a leaky tap,
and now the “sea-view”
is looking less
like a shield
and more like a cry
for help
from a drowning biscuit.

The Americans
are the heavy clumps
of oats
in the middle—
stubborn,
oversized,
and refusing to dissolve,
convinced they are
the only reason
the bowl
hasn’t shattered.

Meanwhile,
the French portion
has drifted
to the left,
forming a posh,
translucent film
on the surface
that looks down
on the rest
of the sludge
with a sniff,
insisting it is actually
a mousse
and not a mistake.

The British flakes
are bobbing
in a watery corner,
unsure if they are
still part
of the breakfast
or if they’ve been
splashed out
onto the tablecloth.

They are currently
trying to maintain
a stiff upper lip
while slowly becoming
a gray,
unidentifiable silt.

The Germans, meanwhile,
are arguing
about the heat
of the water
while their portion
of the porridge
turns into a brick
at the very bottom
of the collective bowl.

It’s a masterpiece
of the local market,
really—
an expensive meal
that has turned
into a swamp.

The “solidarity”
has separated
into oily,
pale lagoons
where a spoon
can no longer
stand up straight
without leaning heavily
on a Turkish olive
for support.

It is the only army
in the world
that can be defeated
by a fifteen-minute nap
and a slight drop
in temperature.

The baby
has spotted
a passing plate
of jollof rice
and has logically
abandoned
the North Atlantic project.

What remains
is a crusting map
of broken promises,
a bowl of “VVIP” sludge
that is now
so sticky
you’d need
a specialized UN task force
and a chisel
just to get
the Hungarian chunks
off the porcelain.

It is a very quiet,
very soggy,
very cold end
for a sea-view
that promised
to cover
the whole table
but couldn’t even manage
to stay warm
until the toast arrived.