BOOK TWO, CHAPTER FIVE: When the Day Decides for You
961 Words
By the time Nnenna reached the restaurant, the sun was already high enough to sting. Lagos heat didn’t negotiate; it simply arrived and expected everybody to adjust. She keyed in her security code, pushed the glass door open, and walked into the familiar scent of roasted peppers, lemons, and a faint trace of last night’s thyme.
Usually, that smell calmed her.
Today, it barely touched her tension.
She dumped her bag in the office and tied her apron tighter than necessary, like she needed something to hold her together before the day tried to pull her apart.
“Chef, good morning!”
Her sous-chef, Uche, popped his head into the kitchen. He always moved as if life never quite surprised him.
She gave a nod. “Morning. Any deliveries come in yet?”
“All here. But the plantain looks like it wants to start a fight.”
She gave a small, reluctant smile. “We’ll win.”
He sensed her mood immediately, the way people who spend long hours in kitchens together often do. He didn’t ask questions. He just handed her a knife and stepped aside.
The first cut into a bell pepper always felt like opening a fresh chapter. Smooth, clean, a little sweet in the air. And for a moment, she let herself get lost in the rhythm. Slice. Scoop. Dice. Repeat. Something about repetition felt like safety.
But her brain wouldn’t stay quiet.
Every time she paused, her eyes slid to her phone on the counter. That message from this morning — the emotional plea, the sudden interest after months of absence — hovered like smoke.
She hadn’t responded. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she knew exactly what she shouldn’t say. Old wounds always had a way of whispering the wrong things.
She was pulled out of her thoughts by the swing of the kitchen door.
“Chef… there’s someone here,” one of the waiters announced. “He says he doesn’t want to order. He wants to speak with you.”
She froze.
There was only one type of person who showed up unannounced like that: someone who assumed they had access.
“Did he say his name?” she asked.
The waiter hesitated. That was the clue she needed.
Her throat tightened a little.
“Where is he?”
“In the waiting area.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, exhaled slowly, and walked out.
And there he was.
The father of her first child.
He looked changed, but not changed enough. Like life had knocked him around but forgotten to teach him anything useful. He stood when he saw her, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes soft in that way men sometimes use to disarm instead of repair.
“Nnenna,” he said quietly.
She hated how her name sounded in his mouth now. Too familiar. Too careless with history.
She crossed her arms. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know. I just… I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”
“You could have tried consistency,” she said. “That usually works.”
He looked down for a second. “I’m trying to be better.”
She almost laughed. Almost.
“Why now?” she asked. Not sarcastic. Not cruel. Just tired.
He lifted his head. “Because I miss my son. And because I miss the family we could have been.”
That last sentence annoyed her more than anything else. Not because it was untrue, but because it was lazy. The kind of line men pulled out when they wanted the benefit of nostalgia.
“Don’t rewrite the past,” she said. “We were never a family. We were two people trying not to drown at the same time.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. She could see him swallow pride he didn’t know how to use properly.
“I want to be involved,” he finally said. “Just… give me a chance.”
She didn’t respond right away. She was thinking, but not about him. She was thinking about her son. About stability. About her own peace — something she fought hard for.
She straightened.
“I’m not shutting the door,” she said. “But I’m not opening it carelessly either. If you want to be involved, you show up the right way. Court-approved. Structured. No emotional chaos. No half-efforts. I won’t let you drift in and out of his life like weather.”
For the first time, he looked genuinely surprised.
And maybe a little humbled.
“I… okay,” he said. “If that’s what it takes.”
“It is,” she replied. “And don’t ever show up here unannounced again. This is my livelihood. My space.”
He nodded slowly, like the message finally cut through whatever fog he lived in.
“Alright. I’ll go through the right channels.”
“Good.”
They stood there a moment, the air thick but necessary. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the quiet behind him.
She didn’t move. Not at first. She just breathed. One steady inhale. One shaky exhale. It wasn’t anger she felt. It was heaviness. The kind that settles behind your ribs and refuses to leave quickly.
Finally, she walked back into the kitchen.
The staff looked up, waiting for her signal.
She gave a small nod — the kind that said she wasn’t falling apart, even if she felt the edges crack a little.
“Alright,” she said, picking up her knife again. “Let’s get ready. The critic could walk in at any moment.”
And just like that, she pushed forward.
Because life didn’t pause for emotional turbulence.
Especially not hers.
- Writer
