BOOK ONE CHAPTER FOURTEEN
960 Words
The first week at Cheftilda moved like a whirlwind — the kind that lifted everything she once thought she had figured out and dropped her into a new rhythm entirely.
Every morning, she woke before dawn. Sometimes her body groaned in protest, sometimes her eyes felt heavy, but she pushed through. A quick shower. A quiet prayer. A soft kiss on her daughter’s cheek. A brief side hug from her son, who acted like eleven-year-olds weren’t allowed to show affection but still lingered a little longer each morning.
She’d leave the house while the street was still waking up, the air cool in a way Lagos rarely allowed. And every day, as she stood at the bus stop with her knife kit slung across her shoulder, she felt a mix of fear and pride sitting side by side in her chest.
By the time she reached the school, the hallways were already humming — students rushing to prep their stations, instructors shouting instructions that echoed against stainless steel. It was nothing like cooking at home. Here, precision mattered. Timing mattered. Even your posture mattered.
On the fourth morning, her instructor, Chef Adebola, watched her fillet a fish with a curious expression, arms crossed over her chest.
“You handle the knife well,” she said. “Self-taught?”
“Yes, ma,” Nnenna replied, trying not to sound nervous.
Adebola nodded but didn’t smile. “Keep your wrist firm. And remember, confidence isn’t speed. It’s accuracy.”
It was strange how one comment could get under her skin. For the rest of the day, she found herself trying to prove something — not to the instructor, but to herself. That she belonged here. That she wasn’t too late. That she hadn’t made a mistake.
By afternoon, she was exhausted. Her feet hurt. Her hands trembled slightly from chopping. Her apron was stained with tomato and oil, and she felt like she’d lived five days in one.
But then something small happened that soothed her.
During a break, one of the younger students, a bubbly girl named Uju, walked up to her and said, “Aunty Nnenna, abeg who taught you how to make that pepper mix? I’ve been watching you since morning.”
The question caught her off guard. She wasn’t used to being noticed like that.
She smiled. “My mother. She used to say ‘pepper has moods, treat it according to the day.’”
Uju laughed loudly, tilting her head back. “You sef, you get talent. I dey watch you oh.”
It was silly, but that single moment lifted her spirit more than she expected.
Later that week, the class was assigned their first group project — a full plated menu: starter, main course, and dessert. Sounds simple enough until you throw ten stressed-out students into the same kitchen with only two ovens.
They immediately clashed over everything — spice levels, plating style, even garnish choices. At one point, two teammates nearly argued themselves out of the kitchen.
Nnenna mostly listened. Observed. She’d learned long ago that people reveal their true selves when you give them space to talk.
But then the instructor called out, “Team Four, you’re behind. Who’s leading your plating concept?”
Silence.
Everyone slowly looked at Nnenna.
It startled her. Her instinct was to step back and say no thank you. She didn’t want unnecessary attention, didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. But something inside nudged her — gently, almost like her son’s drawing whispering, you can step forward now.
She cleared her throat. “I can coordinate it.”
The relief in the group was instant.
They gathered around her station, and she sketched out a simple concept with her finger on the countertop: balance, contrast, clean lines, nothing too fussy.
“We’re not trying to impress them with confusion,” she said. “Just make the food honest. Beautiful, but honest.”
And somehow, everyone listened.
When they plated the final dish — pan-seared chicken with a smoky pepper sauce, charred okra, and coconut rice shaped neatly with a ring mold — it looked like something out of a high-end Lagos restaurant.
When Chef Adebola walked by, she didn’t say a word at first. She just inspected. Glanced at them. Took a small bite. Then nodded in that quiet, approving way of hers.
“Balanced,” she said. “Clean. Well thought out.”
They exhaled like they’d been underwater.
One teammate whispered, “Aunty Nnenna, you saved us.”
She tried to play it cool, wiping her hands on her apron like it was nothing. But on the inside, she felt a small flame flicker to life. Something she hadn’t felt in years. Something like pride, but deeper — belonging.
That night, on the bus ride home, she sat by the window and let the city pass by in blur — street hawkers, danfos squeezing through traffic, the noise, the heat, all of it swirling around her.
Her mind drifted to her kids. To the version of herself they were seeing now — tired, yes, but also pushing, learning, growing. She hoped they felt it too. That shift. That sense that something new was unfolding, even if none of them fully understood it yet.
When she got home, her son ran to her before she even dropped her bag.
“How was school today?” he asked.
She smiled, a small tired smile. “Good. Hard. But good.”
He nodded like he understood everything even though he definitely didn’t.
And for the first time in a long time, she sat on the couch that night feeling like she wasn’t just surviving.
She was building something.
Slowly. Quietly.
But building all the same.
- Writer
