About That Lunch Date

Dear God,

So, there I was, all dressed up for what I thought was going to be a regular weekday lunch (nothing fancy), just a decent meal with my mentor who, by the way, has the calmness of the sea and the patience of Job. When I start feeling the pressures, I sit down with him and listen to the calm words of wisdom. That day, I had worn my “I-might-run-into-a-king” outfit, complete with the I-mean-business-and -I-am-fabulous attitude. You know that look, right? (laughs).

We walked into this swanky restaurant that had more glass than a window showroom and enough marble to make a Roman senator weep. The place was buzzing — fancy folks doing fancy things. I was excited. A good conversation, good food, and maybe, just maybe, a spoil-me-a-little dessert, was what my heart craved.

We got seated, looked through the menu like responsible adults, and placed our order. Smooth. Efficient. Done in five minutes.

But then… Ding-dong, they arrived.

(Let me cue in the dramatic music 1st…….. Paparam-paaraaamm!)

A group of shiny-haired, over-bubbly, waggy tails, over-perfumed millennials strutted in like they were walking the red carpet. Laughter loud enough to shake the chandeliers. Clothes that screamed, “Instagram influencer. I own a ring light in my bathroom.” You get the picture, right?

They sat down, ordered (drama kings and queens at their best) and within what felt like two commercial breaks on Netflix, their food arrived. Hot. Fancy. Instagram-worthy. With extra garnishing and a dose of smugness. If you like a show, you got one there!

Meanwhile, me? I was sipping my water like it was fine wine and pretending not to notice. But who was I kidding?

They were “oohing” and “aahing” on how fast and splendid the service and food presentation was. Then one of them (and I kid you not, Lord) starts bragging loud enough for even the salads to hear, “Oh, I know the hotel owner. The manager? We’re like family. I get the VIP treatment everywhere, man.”

I wanted to tap his shoulder and say, “Excuse me, sir, would you like a microphone with that ego?”. But I just gave them the bombastic side-eye so hard my iris got confused. (I am sorry Lord, honestly, some people have that effect on you. Fine, I know it’s bad belle, but at least I was honest about it!)

Now here’s the kicker: their table had a waiter practically assigned to their every sneeze and desire. I mean, the guy was standing like a well-paid genie, waiting to grant every wish.

Meanwhile, our waiter? Vanished. I started to wonder if he had gone on a sabbatical.

I glanced at my mentor, hoping for a dramatic eye roll of solidarity. But no — not a twitch, not a sigh. Just this quiet man glancing occasionally at his watch, as calm as ever, having a light conversation with me. I was sitting there steaming like jollof rice on a hot stove, and he was Zen. I had bitten my lips so many times so as not to complain.

At exactly 37 minutes (I counted), he looked at me and said, “We may have to go.”

Just like that. No fuss. No flailing arms. Not even a sarcastic “What a lousy service!”

I was the one losing it. The whole thing felt like a slap in my perfectly powdered face. I mean, how can you walk in first, order first, and still be treated like a background actor in someone else’s drama?

Before I could burst into full Igbo auntie mode, the manager showed up. All sweaty, nervous, and oozing apologies like a lavender air freshener.

“I’m terribly sorry for the delay, sir, ma” he said to my mentor and I, voice shaking slightly. “Your order is a special order — being prepared by the chief chef himself.”

Wait, what? What was he talking about? Our order was simple enough. At least mine was. (my stomach has a way of acting up when you give it fancy things, so I always stay with what is safe to eat), So where did the “special order” come from?

I raised my brow. “But why the delay? We came in before that group and they’ve been served and practically finished. What’s going on here? What is special about what we ordered?”

The manager leaned in, clearly on his best behaviour. “Their meals were prepared by culinary students on internship. The head chefs are all working on your order. It’s not just lunch, madam. It’s a five-star experience.”

As if on cue, the waiters returned — all six of them, walking like a processional choir, with plates in hand, followed by the chief chef in full regalia. I’m talking hat, apron, the whole shebang. I almost stood up to clap.

But it didn’t end there.

Out walks the owner of the hotel, a well-dressed gentleman with an air of quiet power. He greets my mentor with a hug that said, “old friends” and sits down right at our table. Suddenly, the table transformed. Like Poof! Genie’s magic. Everything changed. Our table was streamlined with every type and style of culinary subject. It was magic

Ladies and gentlemen, I blinked. I stared. I felt like Cinderella when she was transformed to the beautiful princess.

Apparently, the owner had spotted my mentor (his old friend) when we walked in and wanted to surprise him for visiting his hotel. The shebangs he sprang up was way beyond applaud.

Father Lord, you should’ve seen the other table.

“Tables do turn, my Lord. As the popular Igbo proverb will say, When the king of masquerades arrives, the small spirits will run and hide”.

Their loud laughter died down like a ringtone in church. They were peeking at us now, whispering, probably wondering if we were royalty or oil magnates. The braggadocious guy looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. The owner of the hotel he had bragged he knew did not as much as give him a glance or acknowledge his bowed greetings. The hotel manager he boasted was “family” totally ignored him. All of a sudden, he became as small as the grain of rice he was chewing.

I couldn’t help but giggle.

My mentor simply nodded at me with that wise smile of his. We talked about business, life, politics, and pepper soup. Every important guest that walked in came by our table. Some bowed. Some offered compliments. One asked for a picture. I was starting to feel like a celebrity.

And while I ate what was possibly the best grilled fish I’ve had in my life, I thought: So, this is what it feels like when your portion is prepared by destiny, not desperation. This is what it feels like when you are the big masquerade in the square.

Father Lord, isn’t that just like life?

Sometimes you’re sitting there, watching others get served first. Get ahead. They’re flaunting their connections, their cars, their houses, their weddings, their followers. And you — you’re still waiting. Still praying. Still hoping.

You start to wonder: Did I miss something? Am I invisible? Has God forgotten me? Did I do something wrong? Why am I so unlucky?

But here’s the catch, sis: what they got was cooked in a hurry. Your own order is being handled by the chief chef of heaven. And He doesn’t do microwave miracles.

As they say, “Good things come to those who wait, but divine things come to those who wait with grace.”

So, if you’re in your waiting season, don’t let the noise of temporary show-offs shake you. The main course is coming. And when it does? Six waiters won’t be enough to carry the blessings.

You know, life sometimes feels like God is taking too long. But darling, He’s not slow — He’s intentional. He’s not just preparing a meal. He’s setting a table in the presence of those braggadocios.

Psalm 23, anyone? “He prepares a table before me in the presence of my FRIENEMIES…” Yep. Been there. Seen that.

So, here are my learnings:

Don’t envy people whose success came too fast; you don’t know what kind of kitchen cooked it.

Don’t panic if your plate is empty, God is preparing a banquet.

And don’t forget to bring your appetite, blessings are best enjoyed with a grateful heart.

Next time you’re tempted to sulk while waiting for your order in life, just smile and whisper to yourself: “Mine’s coming with the chief chef.” Now go on, Keep the faith. Keep waiting — but do it in style.

So, this is your daughter Lord, you should have seen how I walked out of that restaurant that day, (laughs). The peacock is a learner! (Don’t look at me like that, Lor

d, they started it!). Fine, I am checking in.