Beware: there are clay huts even in your own neighbourhood!

We were eating egusi soup yesterday (to make my point here clear: it's eaten by hand, with garri) and something popped to my head.

We were waiting for a bus home on the day when Mr. Wonderful came home and there came a woman with her little daughter in a pram; the little girl had icecream.
At some point the girl started to eat that icecream with her hands (well, as far as I know kids like to do that) and the mom started to nag to the girl about it, my favourite part (I may be sarcastic) of it being: "Why are you doing that?! We don't live in a clay hut. People in *clay huts* eat like that, but in *here* we use *tools*!"

I actually found it depressingly funny at that point, thinking myself that in that case those, oh so intimidating, clay huts are far closer than she thinks. And that occasion came into my mind yesterday as we were eating dinner.

The clays huts are in fact in their neighbourhood: they got off the same stop as we did...