The First Lady's Kitchen

Chapter Three

Governor Daniel:

Morning came like a curse. I hadn’t slept. Not since Glory told me what she’d done. Or rather what she’d ordered done. The sunlight poured through the blinds, too harsh for the exhaustion that hung over the room. My phone buzzed nonstop; calls from the Chief of Staff, the Press Secretary, and two foreign journalists who somehow already had wind of a “midnight attack” in Ewendo estate.

My reflection in the mirror looked older; creased, pale. I’d been governor for six months. It was supposed to be about reform, progress, decency. But every promise I made seemed to rot once Glory touched it. She’d smiled when she told me about Okon’s confession. “Darling,” she’d said, brushing her hair aside, “you can’t lead lions if you smell like fear.”

Now, Ekaette was missing.

“Sir,” said Udo, my chief aide, stepping into the office. “The media are in the conference room; Channels, Arise, even BBC Pidgin. They say someone saw armed men in SUVs last night. They’re connecting it to the missing secretary.”

I exhaled, rubbing my forehead. “Do they have proof?”

“Not yet. But sir, her neighbor called in to the police about a break-in. The patrol team found blood.”

The words landed like stones in my stomach. Outside, through the blinds, I could see cameras flashing at the gate. My security detail had doubled since dawn. I knew this was just the beginning.

“Where’s my wife?”

“In the residence. Praying,” Udo replied.

Praying. That was her word for justifying the sins she’d already committed. I wanted to confront her, to shout, to demand why she kept dragging my name through the mud of her vengeance. But part of me already knew the answer, because she could. She’d built the machine that kept me in power. I loosened my tie, trying to breathe. The phone rang again. I picked it up.

“Governor Daniel,” said the voice from the other end. “This is DSP Effanga. We have questions about a reported abduction involving one of your staff. We’ll need to speak to you and the First Lady this morning.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I stared out the window, the compound crawling with reporters, microphones flashing like gun barrels.

“Of course,” I said finally. “We’ll cooperate fully.”

When I hung up, I felt my chest tighten. Somewhere in the city, maybe in one of Glory’s safe houses; Ekaette was bound, beaten, or worse. But somehow, I was still governor. I stood there, the hum of the city beyond my walls.

***

The First Lady, Mrs. Glory:

They brought Ekaette in before sunrise. She was still in her torn nightgown, hair damp with rain, wrists bound so tight her veins bulged. Her eyes darted around the kitchen like a cornered bird, walls tiled in white, cold steel counters gleaming under the yellow pendant lights. The scent of bleach and metal hung thick in the air.

She wasn’t the first to sit in that chair. The kitchen had seen confessions dressed as prayers. Lies peeled back with the ease of onion skin. Pain layered, measured, served in silence. I designed it that way. The drawers weren’t for cutlery alone. The wall behind the spice rack hid switches and cables. I believed a country could be ruled better from here than from any office in Government House.

“Good morning, Ekaette,” I said softly, stepping closer.

She flinched. Her breath hitched as I circled her; a slow orbit, heels clicking against the tiles.

“You look… unsettled. Long night?”

She didn’t reply. Just stared at the floor, lips trembling. I glanced at Otu, who stood near the fridge with his arms folded. His face was unreadable, the fresh gash on his forearm glistening. He’d done well. Despite the mess.

“You bit my man,” I said. “That wasn’t very wise. He has… delicate skin.”

She lifted her head, defiance flickering through her fear. “You’re mad,” she spat. “All of you are sick in the head!”

I smiled. “Maybe. But sickness built this house, Ekaette. Sickness keeps your salary coming. Sickness feeds your family.”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “And sickness is what will keep you alive; if you cooperate.”

Her tears broke loose then. Real ones. They made her mascara bleed down her cheeks, dark veins of weakness.

“Please, ma…” she whispered. “I swear, I didn’t tell anyone anything. I just...”

I pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

From the drawer, I took out the small brass ladle; the same one I’d used to pour hot oil on Okon’s thigh last week. I turned it slowly under the light, admiring its curve.

“You know,” I said, “this kitchen was my mother’s idea. She said every woman needs a place where she can make or break destinies. For her, it was food. For me…” I smiled faintly. “…it’s truth.”

Otu watched, silent as stone.

“Where are the files you sent to the journalist?” I asked. “The transcripts. The recordings.”

“I didn’t send anything!” she cried. “Okon lied! He hated me...”

The ladle clanged against the counter. I turned. “Do not insult my intelligence, Ekaette. I’ve seen the emails. You used your government ID to forward classified minutes from the State Economic Council meeting. Who paid you?”

She shook her head. “No one paid me! I...”

I grabbed her chin and forced her to look at me. “Then why risk it?”

She was silent and trembling. I leaned close enough for her to smell the rose perfume on my wrist.

“You thought you were saving the people, didn’t you?” I said. “Exposing corruption. Playing hero. Tell me, do heroes scream when they die?”

“Ma, please...”

The scream came anyway. Otu held her shoulders as I tipped the ladle into the small pot on the burner. The oil hissed. I didn’t rush. Timing mattered; truth was best cooked slowly.

“Do you remember your first day in this Villa?” I asked her, conversational. “You told me you admired my strength. You said I made power look… graceful.”

Her tears streamed freely now. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I dipped the ladle. Her voice broke into sobs before I even touched her. “Please, please! I’ll tell you everything!"

“Good,” I said. “Start with the journalist’s name.”

She swallowed. “Bassey! Bassey Effiong. Voice Of The People Online. I met him in Lagos. He said the public needed to know how the state fund was being moved. He, he promised me protection!”

I nodded. “Protection.”

The word tasted bitter.