From Pots to Pumps: Mama Chidera’s Corner Nwunye—known to everyone as Mama Chidera—set her low wooden bench at the very edge of the side of the house, where the ground curved gently into the shadow of the tall, nearly circular multi-storey building that rose behind her like a silent watchman. Every morning before the sun cleared the rooftops, she arranged her enamel pots on a small kerosene stove: one with steaming jollof rice, another with pepper soup thick with scent leaf and cow foot, and a third with egusi soup that bubbled softly. A square of zinc sheet, propped on bricks, served as her counter; a faded umbrella shielded her from the sun. Customers came down the narrow path between the building and the next house—office workers, school children, okada riders—each greeted by her quiet “Ndewo” and the quick lift of a stainless spoon. Mama Nnenna lived on the third floor. She never came herself in those early years; instead, her son Nonso, thin and quick-footed, would appear at noon with a plastic plate covered by another. “Mama Chidera, good afternoon,” he’d say, eyes already on the pots. Mama Chidera would fill the plate—rice first, then two pieces of meat, soup ladled carefully so it would not spill on the stairs—and cover it with the second plate. Nonso paid with crumpled naira notes his mother pressed into his palm. Some days Mama Chidera added an extra piece of fish without charging, slipping it beneath the rice when Nonso looked away. Years passed in this rhythm. The building’s outer wall, once pale cream, darkened with dust and rain streaks. The space where Mama Chidera cooked remained unchanged: the same bench, the same stove, the same umbrella now patched with blue plastic. Then one dry-season morning, men in yellow vests arrived with measuring tapes and a generator. They marked the ground with white chalk, right up to Mama Chidera’s bench. By evening, a sign appeared: FUTURE SITE—GAS FILLING STATION. The landlord had sold the strip of land. Mama Chidera moved her pots inside the compound gate, but the space was cramped and the smoke irritated the neighbors. Within a month the bench was gone, the stove sold for scrap, the umbrella folded away. In its place rose a small concrete kiosk painted green, with a red hose coiled like a snake and a handwritten sign: LPG—₦800 PER KG. The air that once carried scent leaf and palm oil now smelled of welding sparks and petrol fumes. Nonso, now taller and carrying a work ID, still passed by most afternoons. He no longer brought a plate; he came for a cylinder refill, greeted Mama Chidera with the same “Good afternoon,” and waited while the attendant weighed the bottle. Mama Chidera stood at the gate, arms folded, watching the scale’s needle settle.