The moment arrives without warning. The jollof pot is empty. The crowd is still hungry. The caterer emerges with fried rice. The energy shifts. This is not what we signed up for. Party fried rice is the understudy that never wanted the role. It is not bad. It is just not jollof. The jollof was smoky, spicy, legendary. The fried rice is... present. It has vegetables. It has color. It has no soul. You eat it because hunger is real. You eat it while mourning the jollof that could have been. And the politics! The people who arrived late don't know the tragedy. They eat the fried rice happily. "This is nice!" they say, unknowingly. The early arrivals stare at them with pity. They missed the main event. They are eating leftovers disguised as options. The fried rice eaters are second-class citizens. The caterer knows. She watches the room. She sees the disappointment. She will claim "the jollof finished fast because it was so good." This is true. It is also an apology. The fried rice is her peace offering. It is accepted with resentment. But the survivors! The people who got both. Jollof first, fried rice second. They are the elite. They post about it. "I had the full experience." They are envied. They are also slightly nauseous from double carbs. But they won. Are you team jollof or team fried rice at parties? And have you ever left a party because the jollof finished?
