She moves through the kitchen like she knows exactly where everything is. Pan to counter. Lid to hook. Salt between her fingers without measuring. One hip bumps the drawer shut when it doesn’t close all the way.
I sit there and watch her cook, getting used to this new image of her.
“I could help if you want,” I tease.
“No.”
“Damn! So quick to turn me down? I can cook!”
“Really?”
“Yes really! I learnt in Nigeria.”
“A lie yuh tell!” She faces me now. “I heard you were in Nigeria living it up in the people dem guesthouse. Prolly had them cooking for you too, right?”
I scoff, “I guess that’s what Zaza told you?”
“Is it true?”
I narrow my eyes. “Partly, yeah.”
“And the other part?”
I look down at my hands. “The other part is… I didn’t really have time to do anything but football. I didn’t have hobbies, or friends, just… training.”
“And now? What do you do when you’re not training?”
“I hang out with you. And Za. Sometimes my teammates.”
“And… What do you do for fun?”
“Football’s fun.”
“Something that isn’t football.”
I think about it. “Nothing.”
She sighs, “I see.”
“What?”
She leans over and looks me in the eyes. “You need to get yourself a hobby. One that doesn’t serve any goals or is related to football or your career. Something that makes you turn your mind off for a bit.”
“Oh,” I toss the idea of that round in my head. “Will you help me pick?”
“Nahhh, you gotta figure that out on your own. It should be something you like after all.”
Hmm, I guess that makes sense. But what? Maybe give the manga ting she picked out for me a try?
“Right.”
When she’s finished, she plates the food and slides it across the counter toward me. The plate is warm when I touch it. Rice fluffed properly. Stew thick and dark, clinging to the spoon and a mountain of plantain.
“This doesn’t look like any breakfast I’ve ever seen.”
“Eat,” she says, already reaching for her rolling tray.
I don’t waste time.
