Lessons After Class.

Chapter 10

I stayed inside my room the whole day like the world outside did not exist. My door was locked and my curtains were half closed, letting in dull light that made everything look tired. Sad songs played again and again from my phone. Soft voices singing about heartbreak, loss, and love that hurts. Songs that sounded like Billie Eilish or Olivia Rodrigo. Songs that made my chest feel tight and my throat burn. I cried until my eyes hurt. Then I cried some more.

My room smelled like cold food and tears. Wrappers were on the floor. Empty cartons sat on my desk and beside my bed. I had eaten without thinking, just opening boxes and chewing because my body needed food even though my heart did not want anything. Everything looked messy. My bed was unmade. My clothes were on the chair. My mirror had handprints from when I leaned on it and cried again.

Melissa came in the morning. She knocked first, soft and careful, like she was scared I would break into pieces if she knocked too hard. I unlocked the door and went back to my bed. She walked in and looked around, then looked at me.

“Hana, are you okay?” She asked.

I shook my head slowly.

“I brought you water. Please drink some before I go”

She placed the bottle on my bedside table. I did not sit up. I just stared at the ceiling.

“I have class this morning but I will check on you later, okay”

“Okay”, I tried to say but the words weren’t audible. It was more of a whisper instead.

She stood there for a while, like she wanted to say more but did not know how. Then she sighed, picked her bag, and left. I heard the door lock behind her.

I did not have any class that day. Even if I did, I knew I would not go. My body felt heavy. My head felt full. The only times I stood up were when the delivery guy knocked or when I needed to lock the door again. Each knock made my heart jump. Each time I wished it was Yemi. Each time it was not.

Malik left late last night. I heard his car. I checked the time when I heard the engine. It was 2:30 am. Before he left, he came to my door many times.

“Hana, are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes”, I replied with a best fake smile I could put on.

“Do you want to talk?”

I chuckled a little before replying, “No”

“I will be in the living room if you need me”

His voice was gentle. I felt bad that he saw me like this. Still, I could not speak. Words felt too hard.

After he left, I took a long shower. The water ran over my face and mixed with my tears. I cried under the shower like no one could hear me. I cried until my chest hurt. When I finally turned off the water, I stood there for a long time before changing my clothes. I took off what I wore to school and picked one of Yemi’s shirts. The big one he sometimes leaves behind. It swallowed me. It almost reached my knees.

It smelled like him.

I pressed the shirt to my face and breathed in. Musk. Sandalwood. That warm smell that always made me feel safe when he hugged me. My legs felt weak and I sat on the bed. I cried again, harder this time.

Yemi is everything people notice when he walks into a room. 5’9. Caramel skin. Strong arms. A face that makes girls stare without shame. But he is not loud or rude. He does not act like he is better than anyone. He listens. He laughs easily. He cares. He loves me the way I am, not the way he wants me to be.

He comes from money but he acts like he has nothing. He talks about building his own future, his own wealth. Still, he spends freely because that is the life he knows. He says it is normal. To me, it is not normal. It is comforting. It is scary. It is everything at once.

I know I messed up. I know this pain is my fault. The thought of losing him made my stomach twist. He is mine. I did not want this to end like this.

I wiped my face and sat up. I needed to do something. I took out a notebook and a pen. I stared at the blank page for a long time. My hands shook a little.

What do I do to fix this?

I wrote ideas and crossed them out. Yemi does not care for expensive gifts. He always says women should not buy him things. He says providing is his role. He likes effort. He likes feeling seen.

I thought about a surprise date. But I knew he would pay even if he was still mad. That idea died quickly. I thought about flowers. They felt small. Maybe a bonus gift.

Then it hit me.

Food.

Real Nigerian food.

I smiled for the first time all day. I opened t****k. I opened YouTube. I searched and watched videos. I remembered the time I tried jollof rice and almost burned the pot. I laughed softly at the memory.

I decided on jollof rice, peppered chicken, and gizzdodo. I wrote a shopping list and got dressed. My eyes were swollen but I did not care.

The African store was crowded. Everything was expensive. I winced when I paid but my heart did not care about money at that moment. I went home and started cooking right away.

The kitchen filled with heat and smell. Pepper. Oil. Tomatoes. I focused on each step. Stirring. Tasting. Praying it would turn out right.

When Melissa came back, the jollof rice was done and I was frying plantains.

She walked in and stared at the stove.

“What is all this?”

“Nigerian food. I am going to his place with the food and flowers to apologize”, I replied with the first real smile I wore today because the thought of us back together just flashed in my mind right now.

I pointed at the lilies on the counter as I replied

“That sounds good. I hope he forgives you. Also, I am starving”, she opened the fridge and drank water.

The smoke detector went off again.

“Are you burning it again?” She asked. I immediately knew she remembered my first jollof rice cooking.

“No… maybe… I do not think so”

I waved my hand in the air, confused.

“This thing has gone off four times already. Maybe it wants food too”

She laughed and helped me fan it until it stopped.

I packed everything neatly. I changed my clothes. I held the food and flowers tightly as I ordered an Uber.

On the ride there, my heart beat fast. My hands were cold. I kept thinking about his face. His voice. The way he looks at me when he is quiet.

I hoped he was home. If not, I had my spare key. I would wait. I would apologize properly. I would tell him everything I felt.

Because losing him was not an option.

***********

This is a bonus chapter (my first jollof rice experience)

Yemi took me to a Nigerian restaurant for the first time ever to try out his food and he was pissed. He said he could cook a better jollof rice than what was served and that it tasted too homemade not what he expected from a restaurant so that weekend, I went to an African store to get food ingredients to make Nigerian jollof rice for him as a surprise.

Cooking jollof rice felt like going to war with hope and fear in my hands.

I stood in the kitchen staring at the rice like it could judge me. The pot was on the stove. The oil was heating. My heart was beating fast for no reason. I tied my hair back and took a deep breath. This was not just food. This was love in a pot.

Okay Hana, you can do this, I whispered to myself.

I blended the tomatoes, pepper, onions, and red bell pepper. The sound of the blender filled the kitchen. When I opened it, the mix looked bright and angry. Like it had something to prove. I poured oil into the pot and waited. When it got hot, I added sliced onions. They sizzled loudly, like they were shouting at me.

I jumped back.

“Why are you shouting like that?” I asked the pot.

The onions did not answer.

I poured in the blended mix slowly. It splashed and hissed. Steam hit my face. My eyes burned. I coughed and waved my hand in front of my face.

“So this is how jollof fights”, I said.

I stirred and stirred. My arm started to hurt but I did not stop. I added seasoning, salt, curry, thyme, bay leaf. I tasted it and paused.

Hmm. Something is missing.

I added more salt. Then a little more pepper. I tasted again.

Better. But not there yet.

The smell started to change. It became rich and deep. It filled the whole house. I just focused on the pot.

Melissa walked into the kitchen and stopped.

“Wow. Something smells serious in here?”

“I am making jollof to surprise Yemi”, I said.

“Ahhhh…. Nigerian jollof. It’s all the rave on t****k now”, she said.

“Yes.”

“The pressure is real”, she laughed and leaned on the counter.

“Do not burn the house please”, she added.

“I will try my best”, I said

I washed the rice until the water was clear. My hands were cold. I poured the rice into the pot and stirred slowly. I added stock and covered it.

This is the point of faith, I said quietly.

Minutes passed. I checked it too early. The rice was still hard and there was still sauce in the red not like the red rice we ate at the restaurant. I panicked.

“Why are you not soft yet?” I didn’t even I asked this question out loud until I heard

“Relax”, Melissa said. “Give it time”.

I lowered the heat and waited. The pot made soft sounds. Like it was breathing. When I opened it again, steam rose gently. “The rice was cooking”, I smiled.

“Yes. We are getting somewhere.”, Melissa rolled her eyes.

Then the smoke detector went off.

Melissa groaned.

I waved a towel under it.

“I swear I am not burning it”, I said to it but it ignored me.

This smoke detector just hates ambition

She laughed again.

When the rice was finally done, I tasted it. I closed my eyes. It was good. Not perfect, but good. Warm. Spicy. Comforting.

I felt tears in my eyes, but this time they were not from the onions I was dicing.

I did it, I said softly.

Cooking jollof rice was not just cooking. It was stress. It was hope. It was fear of failing. It was love mixed with oil and pepper.