BOOK TWO CHAPTER TWO: Pressure Points
994 Words
The next few days felt like someone had turned the volume of life up by half a notch. Not loud enough to overwhelm her, but loud enough that she noticed it.
Everywhere Dinma went in the school, people whispered about Chef Somto.
Where had he come from?
Why was he here?
Which students was he watching?
And somehow — somehow — her name kept slipping into the conversations she wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Aunty Nnenna and the new chef…”
“Maybe he noticed her work…”
“You know they say he picks protégés fast…”
She wasn’t used to being a topic of interest. She didn’t like it much either. Attention felt dangerous. Attention had burned her before — with men, with friends, with people who saw her strength as something to take advantage of.
But this time was different. This attention wasn’t… predatory.
It was curious.
Hopeful.
Almost respectful.
Still, she kept her head down.
On the fourth day, their class began advanced sauce training — one of the modules people dreaded the most. It required patience, precision, and the kind of instinct you couldn’t fake. Chef Somto and Chef Adebola were supervising together, and the room felt tighter than usual, like the walls themselves were watching.
Dinma exhaled slowly, trying to steady her hands as she whisked the butter into the reduction. The sauce thickened, slowly, like it was testing her stamina.
Halfway through, she felt someone step behind her.
“Good,” Somto said quietly. “But lower your heat. You’re rushing it.”
She adjusted it, biting back a sigh. She could feel the others watching. Not directly, but through the corner of their eyes. Everyone was curious — what was it about her that kept drawing his attention?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t want to think about it.
He stayed only a moment longer before moving to another student. But the imprint of his presence lingered behind her like the faint smell of smoke long after the fire was gone.
By midday, her group had to work together on an assignment — everyone contributing toward a menu that required perfect timing. The problem was that one teammate, Adaora, was determined to be the star.
“I can handle the plating,” Adaora said, already reaching for the squeeze bottles.
Dinma shook her head calmly. “Let’s decide as a group first.”
“No offense,” Adaora replied, voice sharp, “but some of us have been cooking professionally longer.”
It stung a little. Age. Experience. Those were the cards people always tried to play against her.
Uju, always quick to defend her, raised a brow. “Aunty Nnenna carried our last project oh, relax.”
Adaora rolled her eyes. “That was luck.”
Something inside Dinma steadied — that quiet strength she’d grown into. She wasn’t going to fight, but she wasn’t going to fold either.
“Let’s focus on the food,” she said simply.
But Adaora wasn’t done. “You think being close to the new instructor means you’ll—”
The kitchen went quiet.
Chef Somto had walked up behind them.
His tone was calm but firm. “Adaora.”
She swallowed, straightening immediately.
“What exactly does proximity to an instructor mean?” he asked.
Adaora’s eyes darted across the room. “Nothing, sir. I was just—”
“Then leave her out of your insecurity.”
Silence. Heavy. Unmistakable.
Adaora nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
He turned to Dinma. Not smiling, but something softer. Something like reassurance.
“Carry on,” he said.
Then he walked away again, leaving tension hanging like smoke that took a while to clear.
Uju nudged Dinma once Adaora moved off. “See your life. Person is defending you oh.”
Dinma didn’t respond. Her chest felt tight in a strange way — not embarrassed, not flattered… more like unsettled.
She didn’t like being defended.
She didn’t like being singled out.
She didn’t like the spotlight that seemed to follow her lately.
After the assignment, the instructors reviewed the dishes. Their group didn’t win, but their flavors were clean, balanced. Chef Adebola gave them a nod that meant more than any applause.
Later, as she cleaned her station, she heard soft footsteps.
“You handled her well,” Somto said.
She didn’t look at him. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was,” he replied. “Students like that thrive when no one pushes back.”
Dinma wiped her knife slowly. “I wasn’t trying to fight anyone.”
“I know.” His voice gentled. “That’s why it worked.”
She finally looked up, only briefly, but it was enough to see something in his eyes — an understanding she didn’t have to explain.
She didn’t know what to do with that.
On her way home that evening, the sky was heavy with clouds, threatening rain. She pressed her bag tighter to her chest, thinking about the day.
She thought of Chidera waiting with her tiny arms open.
She thought of Ike telling her about a science project he needed help with.
She thought of her future — the restaurant she dreamed of, the book she still wanted to write someday, the life she was trying to build piece by piece.
And then, unexpectedly, she thought of Chef Somto.
Not romantically.
Not dramatically.
More like… a question mark.
Something she hadn’t asked for.
Something she wasn’t sure she wanted.
But something that was undeniably, quietly forming in the background of her life.
When she got home, her kids ran to her as usual.
And as she held them close, she made herself a small promise:
No matter what new chapter was opening, nothing — absolutely nothing — would shake the foundation she was building for them.
But deep down, she knew something:
Life was shifting again.
And this time, she could feel it before it happened.
- Writer
