Chapter 8: The Changeover
1394 Words
(Amara’s POV)
Monday morning arrived with the sound of a heavy diesel engine idling outside my shop.
I was wiping down the tables, trying to get ready for the lunch rush. I looked out the window. A massive white delivery truck was parked right in front of Baba’s Pot. It was blocking the view of the street entirely.
Two men in orange jumpsuits jumped out. They lowered the hydraulic lift at the back of the truck.
There it was.
A brand new, gleaming white 5KVA silent diesel generator. It was still wrapped in plastic. It looked like a spaceship compared to the rusted scrap metal I had been using.
My heart did a somersault. He actually did it.
"Madam Amara?" the driver called out, holding a clipboard.
I wiped my hands on my apron and walked outside. The entire street was watching. Uncle Dele was standing by the road with his mouth open. The Okada riders had stopped to stare. A generator this size was a status symbol.
"Sign here, Madam," the driver said.
I took the pen. My hand shook slightly as I signed the waybill. It felt heavy. Real.
"Where do you want it?"
"Round the back," I pointed to the alleyway. "Next to the kitchen door."
The men grunted as they pushed the heavy machine on a trolley. They positioned it perfectly on the concrete slab I had cleared. It looked beautiful.
"Okay," one of the men said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Enjoy."
They hopped back into the truck and drove off.
I stood there staring at the machine. I reached out and touched the cool metal casing. I looked for the start button. I found the key. I turned it.
Nothing happened.
I frowned. I checked the manual. I checked the fuel gauge. It was full.
Then I looked at the wall.
My old generator was connected to the shop with a thin, patchwork of red and black wires that led to a small, melted fuse box. This new beast required heavy-duty armoured cables and a proper industrial changeover switch. If I tried to connect this monster to my old wires, I would burn the shop down in five seconds.
"I have a Ferrari," I whispered, "but I don't have a road."
I felt a wave of frustration. I had the generator, but I still couldn't cook. I would have to call an electrician. It would cost money I didn't have. It would take days.
"Problem?"
I spun around.
Tunde was leaning against the wall of the alleyway. He wasn't wearing his chef coat today. He was wearing a fitted navy t-shirt that showed off arms I had been trying very hard not to notice.
"It’s the wiring," I admitted, defeated. "My cables are too thin. I can't connect it."
Tunde didn't look surprised. He smiled. It was a soft, knowing smile.
"I figured," he said. He gestured behind him.
A man in blue coveralls walked into the alley. He was carrying a massive toolbox and a coil of thick black cable.
"This is Mr. Sunday," Tunde said. "He handles the electricals for The Garnish. He’s here to do your installation. Changeover, breaker box, earthing. Everything."
I looked at Mr. Sunday, then at Tunde. "You thought of everything?"
"I don't do half-jobs, Amara."
My chest felt tight. He hadn't just bought the machine. He had ensured I could use it.
"This will take about an hour," Tunde said, checking his watch. "Mr. Sunday needs to cut the power to the building to work safely."
"But... I have prep to do," I panicked. "I have rice to boil."
"You can't cook in there while he’s rewiring the walls. It’s not safe." Tunde stepped closer. He lowered his voice. "Come across the street."
I blinked. "To The Garnish?"
"Yes. Come to my kitchen. You can wait there. Maybe... we can talk without a crowd watching us for once."
I hesitated. I looked at my small, dark, smoky kitchen. Then I looked at the gleaming glass building across the street. I had never been inside. I had only thrown insults at it.
"Okay," I whispered.
I untied my dirty apron and hung it on the nail. I smoothed down my jeans. I followed him.
Crossing the street felt like crossing a border between two countries. We walked up the paved steps. The automatic glass doors slid open with a soft whoosh.
The first thing that hit me was the cold. The air conditioning was powerful. It smelled of lavender and expensive cleaning products.
The lobby was silent and elegant. There were soft velvet chairs and low music playing. But Tunde didn't stop there. He led me through a heavy swing door marked "STAFF ONLY."
We entered his sanctuary.
The kitchen.
I stopped breathing.
It was massive. It was blindingly white and stainless steel. It was silent, except for the hum of the ventilation and the rhythmic chop-chop-chop of knives. There were six chefs in crisp white uniforms working at different stations. No one was shouting. No one was sweating. It was like a laboratory.
"Welcome to my office," Tunde said.
He led me to a small stainless steel table in the corner, away from the heat of the ovens.
"Sit," he said. He pulled out a stool for me.
I sat down. I felt out of place. My sneakers looked dirty against the pristine white floor.
"Water?" he asked.
"Yes. Please."
He fetched a bottle of sparkling water and a glass. He poured it for me. He didn't sit. He leaned against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms.
He looked different in here. He looked... in control. Powerful.
"So," he said softly. "How does it feel to be the Jollof Champion?"
I looked down at my hands. "It feels... surprising. I didn't think I would win."
"I did."
I looked up. His eyes were intense. "Why? You have all this." I waved my hand at the gleaming kitchen. "You have equipment I can only dream of. You have staff. You have training."
"Equipment doesn't cook food, Amara. People do." He picked up a small spoon and fiddled with it. "You cook with memory. You cook with history. My food is technical. It’s perfect. But sometimes... perfection is cold."
"Your food isn't cold," I said quickly. "The soup... the pepper soup you sent."
Tunde froze. He looked at me.
"The soup?" he asked carefully.
"It was perfect," I admitted. "It wasn't technical. It tasted like... like someone who cared."
The silence between us stretched. It wasn't an angry silence anymore. It was heavy. Charged.
"I did care," he said. His voice was so low I barely heard it over the hum of the fridge. "I didn't like seeing you in pain."
My heart did that stupid flutter thing again.
"Thank you," I said. "For the soup. For the generator. For the electrician. I... I don't know how to repay you."
Tunde smiled. It wasn't his usual arrogant smirk. It was shy.
"You don't have to repay me." He paused. He looked like he wanted to say something else. He looked nervous. "Actually... there is one thing."
I tensed. Here it comes. The catch. "What is it?"
"Teach me."
I blinked. "Teach you what?"
"Teach me how to get that smoky flavor without burning the rice. Teach me how to cook with soul." He leaned forward. "I have the technique, Amara. But you have the magic. Show me."
I stared at him. The billionaire chef was asking me for lessons?
"You want me... to teach you?"
"Yes. Right here. In this kitchen."
I looked around the pristine laboratory. Then I looked at him.
"Okay," I said slowly. "But I warn you. I don't use timers. And I don't use measuring cups."
Tunde grinned. It was the first time I had seen him look genuinely happy.
"I'll throw them away," he said.
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