My Neighbor, the Foodie Glutton Who Never Shares.

Every neighborhood has that one character who somehow becomes the unspoken topic of daily gist not because they’re troublesome, but because they’re just... unforgettable. In my case, that character lives two doors down from me. Let’s call him Johnson.

Johnson is what people in Nigeria would call a "certified foodie" and not the type who appreciates food delicately, like a chef or critic. No, Johnson is on a whole different level. He’s the kind of person who talks about breakfast while eating dinner, who knows every roadside spot that sells the best suya, afang soup, or native rice, and who treats food not just as a necessity, but a life mission.

At first, I found it funny. It’s hard not to laugh when you hear someone seriously debating the superiority of puff-puff from two different vendors, as if national peace depended on it. But as I got to know him more, I realized Johnson wasn’t just a foodie he was a glutton. That man could eat! I’ve watched him finish a plate meant for three people and still lick his fingers with the kind of satisfaction that makes you think he just solved a global crisis.

Now, here's where it gets even more interesting Johnson is painfully stingy. You’d think someone who loves food that much would enjoy sharing, at least once in a while. But not this man. Oh no. Johnson guards his food like it’s gold stored in a bank vault. You can pass by his window and the aroma alone will make your stomach protest, but even if you knock and say, “Ah bro, this thing you're cooking smells heavenly,” he’ll just laugh and say, “Na small soup I cook o, e no go reach two people.”

One day, I was coming back from class, hungry and tired, and the smell of egusi soup slapped me right in the face before I even got to the gate. I already knew it was Johnson’s kitchen working overtime. I greeted him politely, hoping he’d invite me in even if just for a taste. He smiled, rubbing his round belly, and said, “You go like this one o. I put correct stockfish, pomo, dry fish... e choke!” Then he laughed, clapped his hands, and walked away with his steaming bowl. I just stood there, baffled and amused.

It’s not like we don’t share with him. In fact, everyone on the block has, at some point, offered Johnson a plate during holidays, Sunday rice feasts, or when someone tries a new recipe and wants feedback. He’ll gladly collect it, clear the plate, and give you a compliment that sounds like poetry: “Ah! That jollof rice? Na Grammy standard!” But does he ever return the favor? Never. He’ll invite himself over, but his own door is as tight as a bank vault.

One time, my roommate even joked that if there was a zombie apocalypse, Johnson would survive longest not because he has weapons or a plan, but because he probably has a stash of food hidden somewhere that even Google Maps can’t find.

Despite all of this, we can’t really hate him. He’s actually fun to be around energetic, full of stories, and always animated when talking about food. If you sit with him long enough, you’ll learn where to get the crispiest akara, the most tender goat meat, and how to judge a restaurant based solely on the way the pepper soup smells from the entrance.

But don’t be deceived he’ll never take you there unless you’re paying.

Living near Johnson has taught me two things: first, food truly is a love language, and second, some people just don’t speak it in the direction of others. Still, every time the smell of his cooking floats through the window, I find myself smiling, shaking my head, and muttering, “That man no go ever change.