BETROTHED (14)

“I remember you saying you don’t stay too far, so I decided to visit. It was actually Amena’s idea.”

Mena stared at the two beautiful ladies standing at her doorway and could only mumble in embarrassment.

“I’m surprised you have no reply,” Amena said with a smile as she studied Mena’s shocked countenance.

Mena was still wrapped in a faded sleeping scarf that struggled to contain her sharp-edged 4C puff. A toothbrush hung awkwardly from the corner of her mouth, white foam of toothpaste betraying the rush in which she had opened the door.

Behind her, Papa burst into laughter.

Mena instantly knew he was part of the setup.

She finally gathered enough courage to step aside and let them in. She flashed Papa a knowing smile as he gently excused himself from the parlour after exchanging pleasantries with the ladies.

She had been a constant ringtone in Papa’s ears lately, complaining about how bored and unhappy she felt. She had no idea how Papa arranged this surprise visit, but she was grateful. She made a mental note to give him a big hug later and whisper a heartfelt thank you.

Their home sat quietly at the end of a sandy path lined with hibiscus shrubs and stubborn patches of grass that refused to give way to the dry earth. The bungalow was modest but proud, its weathered cream walls carrying stories of years gone by, and its rust-tinted zinc roof glinting softly under the sun.

Inside, the sitting room breathed nostalgia. A sturdy wooden sofa set draped with carefully washed Ankara covers stood proudly against the wall. A small centre table bore the marks of many years of use. On the far wall sat an old television with rounded edges, balanced on a wooden stand that also housed an aging radio whose knobs had faded from constant turning.

Above the doorway hung Papa’s old hunting gun, polished and preserved like a relic of another time.

Everything in the room told a quiet story of endurance and simplicity.

Mena disappeared briefly into her room and returned dressed in a cream-coloured top paired with a sky-blue layered wrap skirt that danced softly around her legs. She hurried into the kitchen and soon returned with a tray holding roasted groundnuts and freshly cut garden eggs.

Ziba knew she needed to discuss the letter she had received with Mena, but for now, that could wait. Truthfully, she had missed the noisy disturbance Mena often brought into her life.

Mena smiled brightly as her guests accepted the small refreshment with excitement.

“We have a really nice path behind the house. I would love us to take a walk after we eat. Cool?”

“Sure,” they chorused.

Mena avoided Ziba’s stare. She knew how awkward things might be between them after the letter. She had been mentally preparing to deal with it when school resumed.

What she hadn’t realised was that she would have to face it sooner than later. Her eyes lingered briefly on Ziba’s parrot-shaped earrings that swung gently as she moved. The corset-style Ankara midi dress with puff sleeves hugged Ziba’s frame perfectly, and the black sneakers grounded the elegance with a touch of rebellion.

“You look nice,” Mena muttered, using the compliment as a small bridge across the tension.

Ziba knew Mena was tense.

And she had no intention of easing it immediately.

A little discomfort, she believed, was deserved.

She simply nodded in response.

Amena sensed the tension thickening the air between them but chose not to interfere. Some knots, she believed, were better untied by the people who tied them.

“How is Mama Yola doing?” Mena asked, turning her gaze to Amena.

“She’s doing blessed,” Amena replied with a soft laugh. “Helping humanity as always. Typical Mama Yola style.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mena said, disappearing into the kitchen. Inside, she checked the ingredients Papa had allowed her to use. There was enough to cook something proper for her friends. She washed the vegetables carefully and set to work.

Soon the kitchen came alive. Palm oil warmed gently in the pot, releasing its deep earthy scent. Crayfish blended into the oil, followed by chopped onions that sizzled softly. Fresh prawns curled as they touched the heat, and the round fish simmered quietly in the rich broth. Periwinkles clinked gently against the spoon as she stirred.

Finally, she added sliced uziza leaves and a colourful mix of vegetables that instantly brightened the pot. The aroma rose like a confident announcement through the house.

In the parlour, Ziba and Amena took in their surroundings more carefully; the old television, the antique radio, the carefully preserved hunting gun, and the solid wooden table spoke of a home where history mattered.

Amena leaned closer to Ziba and whispered with a teasing smile, “Whatever Mena did, please forgive her. At least you can already smell the apology she’s cooking in that kitchen.”

Ziba chuckled softly,  “We’ll see about that.”

Not long after, Mena returned carrying a tray with three plates. On each plate sat smooth, hand-moulded balls of steaming cassava swallow, pounded until silky and shaped perfectly. Beside them were bowls of rich vegetable soup brimming with crayfish, prawns, periwinkles, round fish, and fresh uziza leaves glistening in the palm-oil broth.

Amena’s eyes widened immediately, “Haaa! Mena, you outdid yourself oh! Thank you!”

Ziba smiled quietly, she remembered one of the many times in class when Mena had leaned across desks, completely unbothered by annoyed stares.

On that particular day, Mena had stretched across the aisle and rested her arms on Ziba’s table, blocking the course note Ziba had been trying desperately to finish, “What's your best meal?” Mena had asked, flashing all thirty-two teeth without apology. Ziba had sighed.

It was easier to answer than to engage in Mena’s endless questions.

“Cassava with vegetable soup,” she replied flatly.

Mena had furrowed her brows thoughtfully before nodding, “Nice choice.”

Seeing the exact meal now sitting before her made Ziba smile. Mena remembered.

For the first time since they arrived, Ziba looked directly at Mena and smiled, a genuine one this time. Mena’s shoulders relaxed immediately. They exchanged a quiet nod of acknowledgement.

The aroma rising from the soup stirred memories of Ziba’s mother’s kitchen, warm evenings, and familiar comfort. She found herself genuinely looking forward to the first bite. Well played, Mena.