THE JOLLOF INCIDENT
1065 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Adrian smelled it before he saw it.
He’d woken up to the distant sound of humming. Not the melodic kind one might associate with gentle mornings or pleasant moods. No, this was war-time humming. Confident. Intentional. Slightly threatening.
He checked the time, 6:13 a.m.
Unacceptable.
By 6:15, he was padding down the stairs in a t-shirt and joggers, hair uncombed, expression sour, hoping, praying, it wasn’t what he thought.
It was worse.
Zara stood in his kitchen like a general commanding her troops. Three pots were on the stove. Tomatoes were bubbling ominously in a pan. A fan was blowing steam out the window. The scent of thyme, Scotch bonnet, and something charred filled the air.
She had requisitioned his entire kitchen.
She was not, as one might expect, in some domestic apron or demure ensemble. No. Zara was barefoot, rocking an oversized grey sweatshirt that said “God Abeg” in faded black letters, snug black tights that ended mid-thigh, and long mustard-yellow socks that were dangerously close to becoming leg warmers. A wooden spoon was tucked behind her ear like a pencil, and her Bluetooth speaker blared an Afrobeat playlist at a volume fit for a club, not a Kensington townhouse.
Adrian blinked. Took it all in. The outfit. The pots. The bassline shaking his countertop.
He cleared his throat loudly.
Nothing.
He stepped closer. “What... are you doing?”
She didn’t even turn around. “Cooking.”
“Cooking what, exactly?”
“Jollof rice.”
He blinked again. “Why?”
She turned then, frowning at him as if he were the problem.
“Because I’m hungry. Because you no get any edible food in this house. Because the spirit of the ancestors whispered to me to do it. Pick one.”
“You couldn’t just... toast bread?”
She looked genuinely offended. “Toast bread? For breakfast? Is that what you call living?”
He took a moment, eyes dropping to her socks.
“What are you wearing?”
Zara glanced down, then back up. “Clothes. What does it look like?”
“It looks like my sleep paralysis demon joined a dance crew.”
“Funny,” she said dryly. “This demon makes better food than your entire fridge combined.”
Adrian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That pan costs more than your entire outfit.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then it should be honored to carry greatness.”
“Greatness?” he repeated.
“Jollof,” she said, with the solemnity of a priest.
He watched, helpless, as she stirred the pot like she was summoning spirits.
There was a moment of silence. Then, as if sensing his internal despair, Zara smiled sweetly. “Relax, oga. I’ll make you a plate.”
“I don’t want a plate,” Adrian muttered.
“You will."
By 7:03 a.m., the rice was ready.
Zara dished it out with flair, adding a perfectly fried plantain fan and a side of peppered chicken so red it looked dangerous.
She slid the plate across the counter to him. “Here.”
He looked at it like it was a biohazard.
She crossed her arms. “You’re not allowed to insult it until you taste it.”
“I never agreed to eat,”
“Thorne,” she said warningly.
He blinked. She’d never called him that before.
She leaned closer, voice low. “This is jollof rice. Not that red-orange confusion some people call food. I woke up at 5 a.m. to blend pepper, I risked your fire alarm system, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt and socks combo the ancestors might not approve of. Eat the rice.”
Adrian picked up the fork.
Zara folded her arms, watching him like a hawk.
He took one bite. Then another. Then froze.
The flavors hit him like a soft slap heat, sweetness, the smoky taste of firewood he knew logically couldn’t be there, and a complexity that made his chef-crafted meals feel bland in comparison.
He chewed slowly.
“Well?” she demanded.
He took a long sip of water, then looked at her, unreadable.
“It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Her hands went to her hips. “You’re mad.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he said carefully.
“‘Fine’ is what you tell your therapist when you’re lying. That rice slapped you in the soul and you know it.”
He kept eating.
She huffed, turned away, and muttered in Yoruba. Something about stubborn goats and people who needed deliverance.
Later that day, Zara returned to the kitchen to find a note on the fridge.
In Adrian’s precise handwriting:
Kitchen Use Schedule: Zara – 6 a.m. to 8 a.m. Adrian – 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. Shared Access Requires Permission.
Underneath it, she added in red marker:
Permission denied.
The next morning, Adrian came downstairs to find the fridge had been reorganized. It now had quadrants. Actual, labeled quadrants. Sticky notes marked out territories: Zara's Zone, Do Not Touch, Trespassers Will Eat Pepper.
He wrote underneath: This is a shared space. Not your family compound.
She added: Then stop acting like the village chief.
The war had begun.
They barely exchanged pleasantries after that, unless you counted passive-aggressive notes and dramatic fridge reorganizations. Adrian attempted to reintroduce a breakfast smoothie regime. Zara replaced his almond milk with Peak evaporated milk.
He brought home protein bars.
She labeled them “Bird Food”.
One afternoon, he caught her lounging on the kitchen island, socks on the marble, casually eating efo riro straight from a container.
“You know this isn’t a hostel common room, right?” he said, opening the fridge.
“And yet, here I am. Living my best life.”
“Do you own actual trousers?”
She gave him a long look. “Do you own an actual personality?”
Touché.
But even in the chaos, a strange rhythm began to form.
He learned not to touch the red pot with the yellow lid. She stopped using his saucepan—for now. He bought a fire extinguisher. She... labeled it “useless if you don’t know how to fight stew.”
Adrian didn’t know it yet, but could this be a begining of a life of frustration or something else?
They just didn’t know what.
Yet.
- Writer
