“Soup again?” My stomach sank to my toes. We had soup every Saturday at Kent Academy (K.A.), the boarding school for missionary children in Nigeria. Just a thin broth with a few pieces of chicken, soft slithery onion bits, rice, and parsley. But not much flavor.

“I love this soup with chicken and rice.” My tablemate swallowed a big spoonful.

“Not me. I wish there were noodles. The green flecks taste yucky.” I stirred them around.

“My mom puts that in our soup at home for more flavor.  I think it’s parzley,” she said.

I picked up the clear glass shaker from the middle of the table and sprinkled white crystals over the soup. Then the three other kids at my table, also in first or second grade, passed it around and added salt too.

I took a taste. “Please pass the saltshaker again.”

Andrew, a friend from my home at Egbe, nudged my arm. “You really like salt.”

“Yep, I do. It makes this boring soup taste better.”

“Why don’t you pour the rest of the shaker on it?”

“It’s half full!”

“I’ll pay you if you dump it all in,” he said. “Before we flew here, my dad gave me a British pound—that’s twelve whole shillings—and I haven’t spent one penny yet.”

My eyes opened wide. I had no spending money at K.A., certainly not a whole pound. That’s a lot of money. His family must be rich.

He put his hand in his pocket. “I’ll give you a pound if you put the rest of the salt in.”

Andrew was one of the nicest boys here, and my heart fluttered at all this attention from him. If he was willing to pay me, this must be important. I screwed the metal lid off and turned the shaker upside down over my soup bowl.

Then I whipped it up, took a bite, and gagged. “Yuck! That’s awfully salty!”

Too Much Salt to Eat

Andrew’s eyes drooped, and his mouth turned down. “Maybe you should pour water in to make the salt weaker.” He looked worried.

I swallowed a few spoonfuls and poured in more water.

An auntie came by to see how we were doing. “Debbie, you haven’t finished your soup.”

“I put too much salt in, and it tastes awful.”

“Well, I’m sorry it’s too salty, but you’d better hurry and finish. It’s almost time for us to leave.”

I nodded. After she left, I took a bite and gagged again. Throughout the rest of the mealtime, I diligently added water and swallowed spoonful after spoonful.

At last, the uncle spoke over the loudspeaker. “Lunch is over. Everyone who’s finished eating can be excused.”

My tablemates stood. I stuck out my hand, palm up, in front of Andrew. “You need to pay me. I emptied the salt into my soup.”

“Okay, here” He flashed a mischievous grin, balled up his fist, and thumped it into my hand on the table. “There’s your pound.” He turned and ran out the door.

Stunned by the pain, I felt tears welling up. I had expected a crisp paper bill but got a heavy whack.

My hand throbbed as I lifted the spoon for the last few bites. I had eaten the equivalent of four bowls full, counting all the water I added. My stomach ached.

The auntie walked over and looked in my bowl. “Good girl. You finished, so you can go now.”

I raced across the playground, past the mango tree, past the front steps of the girls’ dorm, and on to the side door of the second-grade wing. I’m going to throw up.

Getting it All Out

Letting the screen door slam behind me, I dashed down the hall to my room. As soon as I entered, I couldn’t help myself. My stomach twisted and spewed its watery contents out of my mouth, right in front of my two roommates.

“Step back!” My tall roommate Heather grabbed the arm of a shorter girl, pulling her toward the window at the back of the room.

Wave after wave flowed from my gut and spewed onto the floor in the center of our room, making a watery pool.

“Debbie, are you sick?” Heather scrunched up her face and crossed her arms over her tummy.

“I’m okay. But I dumped way too much salt in my soup, and I had to eat it all.”

Just then a heavy-set dorm mother hurried in. “I heard the ruckus. It looks like you need some help cleaning up this mess.” She disappeared and soon returned with a bucket of sand. After she poured it over the mess, she swept it all into the wastebasket and carried it away.

That evening at dinner, I sat at my table with my same tablemates and pointed at my friend. “Andrew, you made me get sick.”

“How did I make you sick?”

“You tricked me. I thought you meant you would give me a real pound. When I got back to my room, I threw up all that salty soup.”

“Well, you should have known I didn’t have a pound in my pocket. We’re not allowed to keep our own money.” Then he patted my hand. “I’m sorry I tricked you. Does your hand still hurt?”

“No, of course not. You didn’t hit me that hard.” I grinned. “So, I’m not mad at you, and I still like you.”

His cheeks turned red, and his eyes shifted toward the window. When he turned to me again, he flashed that familiar cheeky grin. “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

“Me too. And I won’t ever let you fool me again!”

Looking Back on My Childhood

When traveling back to K.A. in my memories, I’ve often felt like I was navigating the world alone. However, as I write these stories and return there in my mind, the other children come to life again—kids who were in the same predicament as I was. When thrown together as we were without parental guidance, children often hurt each other, either inadvertently or on purpose. However, we also tried to help each other the best way we could.

Because Andrew was a close friend and good-natured overall, I wasn’t mad at him for long after that prank. He didn’t mean to hurt me, because the pound wasn’t nearly as hard as he could have made it! Mainly I was embarrassed at being tricked by a guy I had a crush on and mad at myself for being gullible. Moving forward, I probably became warier of all boys, and that actually worked for my good in the future.

The unexpectedly positive thing that came from this memoir is reconnecting with my old friend via social media. He doesn’t have any memories of this, and back then, I think he just saw the humor in the play-on-words between the money and the action. He’s now a pastor in Tauranga, New Zealand, happily married to Elizabeth. They have three adult children and six grandchildren.

Link it to Your Life

Think back to your childhood or youth when kids played pranks. Were you usually the recipient, the prankster, or an observer? Were the pranks in good fun or were they cruel? Did any pranks leave wounds that linger and could be placed in our Heavenly Father’s hands for validation, comfort, and healing? Is there someone to whom you owe amends?

Have you been able to reconnect with someone from your past and talk about shared experiences? It can be scary to reach out, but I’ve found it’s worthwhile to rekindle lost friendships or repair strained relationships.

Dear Father, I know you were with me during my childhood even though I didn’t always see you and often felt lonely. Thank you for the friends forged in the good times and the tough times and that we can reconnect today.

“…a prudent man overlooks an insult.” (Proverbs 12:16b NIV)