Chapter 12: The Ultimatum
1869 Words
(Amara’s POV)
Be careful what you pray for. You just might get it.
I had prayed for customers. I had prayed for visibility. The Jollof Festival gave me both.
On Monday, Baba’s Pot wasn't just busy. It was a war zone.
By 1:00 PM, the line stretched out the door and onto the street. The new silent generator was humming perfectly outside, powering the fans and the freezer, but it couldn't help me cook faster. It couldn't help me serve tables. And it definitely couldn't help me wash dishes.
I was alone. My cousin who sometimes helped out on weekends was in school. I couldn't afford staff yet.
"Madam! Where is my Semo?" Uncle Dele shouted from the corner, banging his fist on the table. "I have been waiting since independence!"
"It is coming, Uncle!" I shouted back, wiping sweat from my eyes.
I grabbed a stack of dirty plates from a table. I ran to the sink. It was overflowing. There were no clean plates left. The water in the basin was cold and greasy.
I felt tears pricking my eyes. I was going to drown. I had won the competition, but I was going to lose my customers because I was too slow.
The door opened. The bell jingled.
"We are full!" I yelled without looking up, dumping the plates in the sink with a crash. "Come back in thirty minutes!"
"I’m not here to eat."
I froze. I knew that smooth, deep voice.
I turned around. Tunde was standing in the doorway.
He wasn't wearing his chef whites. He was wearing a fitted grey t-shirt and jeans, looking calm and expensive amidst the chaos of my Buka.
"Tunde?" I panted, wiping my hands on my stained apron. "I don't have time for this. If you came to mock me or check if I’m serving your ravioli, please just go."
"I came to check on the generator," he said calmly, stepping aside as a customer squeezed past him. "I saw the line from across the street. I wanted to make sure the load wasn't too much for the new engine."
"The generator is fine," I snapped, rushing past him to grab a tray of drinks. "It’s the human that is breaking down."
He watched me run. He watched me drop a spoon. He looked at the sink piled high with dirty dishes. He looked at the line of hungry, angry mechanics and market women.
He didn't say a word. He just walked past the counter.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Where are you going? That is the kitchen! Staff only!"
"You don't have staff, Amara," he said simply.
He walked straight to the sink. He looked at the mountain of plates. He looked at the greasy pots.
He took off his expensive watch and put it in his pocket. He rolled up his sleeves.
"Where is the sponge?" he asked.
I stared at him, holding a tray of warm Cokes. "You want... to wash plates?"
"Unless you have a magic wand hidden in that apron," he said. He picked up the sponge and the bar of soap. "Go serve Uncle Dele his Semo. I will handle the sink."
"But... you are Tunde Vaughn," I stammered. "You don't wash plates. You hire people to wash plates."
He looked at me over his shoulder. His eyes were serious.
"Today I am just Tunde. Go, Amara. Your customers are waiting."
I stood there for a second, stunned. Then Uncle Dele shouted again.
"Amara! Did you go to harvest the yam?"
I snapped out of it. I ran to the pot. I dished the Semo. I served the soup.
For the next two hours, we worked in silence.
It was a dance. I moved between the tables and the stove. Tunde stayed at the sink.
The sound of running water and clattering plates became the rhythm of the kitchen. Every time I brought in a dirty stack, he took it without a word. Every time I needed a clean plate, it was there, dried and stacked.
He didn't complain about the heat. He didn't complain about the smoke. He didn't complain when palm oil splashed on his grey t-shirt. He just worked.
The customers noticed. The whispers started.
"Is that not the big man from The Garnish?"
"Why is he washing plates for Amara?"
"Maybe he owes her money?"
I ignored them. I was too busy watching him out of the corner of my eye. His muscles flexed as he scrubbed the cast-iron pots. Sweat dripped down his temple. He looked focused. He looked capable.
He looked like he belonged there.
By 3:30 PM, the rush was finally over. The last customer left.
I locked the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED.
I walked back into the kitchen. Tunde was drying the last pot. He placed it on the shelf and wiped his hands on a rag. His grey t-shirt was soaked with water and sweat. There was a smear of soot on his cheek.
He looked exhausted.
He looked perfect.
"You survived," he said, leaning against the sink.
"We survived," I corrected him. I walked closer to him. My legs were shaking from exhaustion. "Why did you do that, Tunde?"
He shrugged. "You needed help."
"You are a billionaire chef. You could have sent Samuel. You could have sent anyone."
"I didn't want to send Samuel," he said softly. "I wanted to be here."
He took a step toward me. The small kitchen suddenly felt very intimate. The air was thick with the smell of soap and spices and him.
"I wanted to show you," he said.
"Show me what?"
"That I am not afraid of getting my hands dirty. That I am not just the man in the glass house." He took another step. He was right in front of me now. "I wanted to show you that I can fit in your world too."
My breath hitched. "You fit," I whispered. "You fit perfectly."
He reached out. He took my hand. His palm was rough from the water and the sponge. It felt real.
"Amara," he said. His voice dropped to a rumble. "I am tired of fighting you. I am tired of the games. I am tired of pretending that I don't want to be right here, standing next to you."
My heart was pounding so hard I thought he could hear it.
"Tunde..."
"Let me take you out properly," he said. "Not to my restaurant. Not to impress you. Let’s go to a Buka. Let’s go get Suya at the University of Suya. Let’s just... be us."
He looked down at me. His eyes were dark and intense. He wasn't looking at me like a prize to be won. He was looking at me like I was the only person in the room.
He leaned in.
His hand came up to cup my cheek. His thumb brushed over my skin.
I wanted him to kiss me. God, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to forget about the generator and the shop and everything else. I wanted to melt into him.
My eyes fluttered closed. I tilted my head up.
And then, I remembered.
ChefX.
The image of my phone screen flashed in my mind. The late-night texts. The secrets. Safety.
ChefX was the one who knew my soul. Tunde was... physical. Tunde was heat and confusion. But ChefX was my safe harbor.
If I kissed Tunde now, I would be betraying the man who had held my hand through the darkness. I would be choosing the body over the heart.
I couldn't do it.
I pulled back.
Tunde froze. His face was inches from mine. He looked confused. Hurt.
"Amara?" he whispered.
I stepped back, putting distance between us. I wrapped my arms around myself.
"I can't," I said. My voice was shaking. "I can't do this."
"Why?" Tunde asked. He sounded desperate. "I felt it, Amara. You felt it too. Yesterday. Today. It is there."
"I know," I admitted. Tears pricked my eyes. "I know it is there. That is the problem."
"I don't understand."
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had just spent three hours washing dishes for me. The man who had bought me a generator. The man who was trying so hard.
"There is someone else," I whispered.
Tunde went still. "Someone else? You have a boyfriend?"
"No," I said. "Not a boyfriend. But... there is someone I talk to. Someone I trust. Someone I have feelings for."
Tunde stared at me. His expression was unreadable. "Who is he?"
"It’s complicated," I said. "I haven't even met him properly. But... he knows me, Tunde. He knows the parts of me that are scared. He knows the parts of me that aren't strong."
I looked down at the floor.
"When I am with you, I feel overwhelmed. But when I talk to him, I feel safe. I can't start something with you when my heart is... divided."
Tunde didn't speak for a long time. The silence stretched out, painful and heavy.
"You prefer him," Tunde said finally. His voice was flat. "You prefer this... mystery man. Over the man standing in front of you."
"It’s not about preference," I pleaded. "It’s about trust. I need to figure out what that is before I can explore this."
Tunde nodded slowly. He stepped back. He looked tired. More tired than he had looked after washing the dishes.
"Okay," he said. "I understand."
He didn't understand. How could he?
"Tunde, I..."
"I should go," he said. He walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the frame. He didn't look back. "Goodbye, Amara."
He walked out.
I watched him cross the street back to The Garnish. He didn't look back.
I was alone in my kitchen again. The new generator was humming silently outside. The dishes were clean. The floor was swept.
But I felt like I had just made a terrible mistake.
I pulled out my phone. I needed to fix this. I needed to know.
I opened the app.
Me (SpiceGirl): Chef. I need to see you.
I typed fast, my fingers trembling.
Me (SpiceGirl): I can't do this anymore. I just pushed away a good man because of you. I need to know if this is real. I need to know who you are.
Me (SpiceGirl): Let’s meet. Tonight. Eko Hotel Bar. 8 PM. Please.
I hit send.
I stared at the screen, waiting. Praying.
If he didn't show up, I would lose them both.
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