CHAPTER 8: BRASS EMBER
2000 Words
The morning came in quietly.
I didn’t hear the twins for once—maybe they were still asleep, or maybe they’d been told to behave. Zainab was probably doing her two-hour beauty routine behind a locked door, and the cook had already started frying something downstairs. The house had its own rhythm. I just moved through it.
I was in the living room tying my shoelace when Mom walked in, already dressed, already glowing. She looked like she had somewhere to be, even if she didn’t.
“Ayoola,” she said, settling onto the couch beside me, crossing her legs like she had something soft and serious to say. “We haven’t really talked about your personal things.”
I looked up at her. She was holding a shopping list in one hand and her phone in the other.
“I noticed you haven’t asked me for anything,” she added.
I blinked. “I don’t need anything.”
She gave a soft, knowing smile. The kind people wear when they’re trying to approach you without making you flinch.
“Do you still make your hair every two weeks?”
I looked down. “I used to.”
Her voice gentled. “Your grandfather arranged that?”
I nodded.
“He always bought the creams and oils. He’d call a stylist home—sometimes she’d braid, other times she’d just wash and treat. He said I shouldn’t worry about how I look, just focus on being strong and smart. He said it was his job to make sure I looked like someone who was raised right.”
Her face changed—something shifted behind her eyes. Grief, maybe. Or guilt.
She placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “I didn’t know. He really did everything for you, didn’t he?”
“Everything.”
There was silence for a moment. The kind that feels like stepping into a memory you didn’t expect to share.
She cleared her throat.
“Well… from now on, I’ll take care of that. Or better yet, you’ll pick what you want, and I’ll pay. We’ll go to the store later today, get all your products—hair cream, shampoo, conditioner, anything you need. If there’s someone you used to call, we can try reaching them.”
I gave her a small nod.
“Okay.”
She brightened a little. “We’ll also look for a stylist that can come to the house regularly. Unless you want to start going to a salon?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I don’t like salons.”
“Got it. Home service, then.”
I sat back and stared out the window for a bit. The sky was a deep, washed-out blue. The kind of sky Grandpa and I used to go jogging under on Saturday mornings. He’d bring back kunu and suya sometimes afterward and say, “Real warriors eat after the fight, not before.”
Now I was sitting in a leather couch I hadn’t picked, in a house filled with soft things and questions I didn’t have the energy to answer.
“What about clothes?” Mom asked gently. “Do you want to shop for new outfits? We can go to the mall after.”
I shook my head. “I only wear what’s comfortable.”
She smiled again, but didn’t push. “I know. Just tell me if anything runs out.”
I nodded.
She stood to leave, her phone buzzing as she checked a text. Her heels clicked softly across the tiled floor.
At the doorway, she turned slightly. “I know I can’t replace him, Ayoola. But I can try to help where he left off.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just walked off toward her room.
I sat there a little longer, quietly wondering how many people it would take to fill one man’s shoes.
And if anyone ever really could.
---
The drive to the restaurant was silent, except for the occasional Lagos traffic horn and Mom’s quiet humming to a song playing on the radio. I didn’t recognize the lyrics. Probably something from a film she acted in.
I sat beside her, the folder with the property documents on my lap, and the restaurant key in my pocket. I hadn’t touched it since the night she gave it to me.
We didn’t talk.
She didn’t ask questions.
I was grateful for that.
When we pulled up to the gate, I stared through the tinted window for a while. It didn’t look like anything special at first—painted white walls, an old wooden sign that read Brass Ember in gold cursive, and a green awning that flapped lazily with the breeze.
But as we entered the compound, I saw it—the neat landscaping, the vintage lamp posts, and the quiet hum of a place that had been cared for even in his absence. There were a few parked cars already. Mid-morning guests, maybe. Or staff.
Mom turned off the engine.
“You sure you want to go in alone?”
“Yes.”
She nodded and handed me her sunglasses. “Just in case the press or someone shows up. Your face looks a lot like mine.”
I put them on. They were too big, but I didn’t argue.
---
The manager was already waiting at the entrance—a tall woman with locs pinned into a bun and an expression that said she didn’t smile unless you earned it.
“Ayoola,” she said as I walked up. “I’m Mrs. Aluko. I was your grandfather's secretary”
My heart skipped.
She didn’t say “our founder,” or “the previous owner.” She said your grandfather—like she already knew the weight of that word.
“Come. Let me show you around.”
---
The inside of the restaurant was nothing like the simple building I had imagined.
It was warm and rich with deep wood tones and leather seats. Framed photos lined the brick walls—old pictures of my grandfather shaking hands with customers, smiling with chefs, writing on menus. There was even one of me, maybe six years old, seated on his lap and holding a plate of jollof rice like it was treasure.
“He said he didn’t want this place to feel like a business,” Mrs. Aluko said. “He wanted it to feel like a memory.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My throat was tight.
We walked through the kitchen—clean, busy, filled with organized noise. The head chef greeted me with a respectful nod. “Welcome, Omo Commander.”
That was what some people called Grandpa in the neighborhood—Commander. Not just because of his military past, but because he ran his life like a well-ordered post. And apparently, his restaurant too.
“Your grandfather ran this place six days a week,” Mrs. Aluko said, leading me up the stairs to a small office with tinted windows that overlooked the floor. “But every Sunday, he came just to sit by the window and watch people eat. He never interfered. He just watched.”
The office smelled faintly of cinnamon and old paper. The chair behind the desk was still pushed back, like he’d just gotten up for a moment and would return.
I walked to the desk and touched the armrest.
“He kept things simple,” she continued. “But he wrote everything down. There’s a ledger in the drawer. His handwriting is everywhere in this place.”
I didn’t sit. I just stood there, eyes on the glass, watching the restaurant breathe without him.
A waitress laughed downstairs. A child clapped at their plate. The chef rang a small bell to signal an order was ready.
Life kept going.
And here I was, standing in a place I didn’t know but somehow already belonged to.
---
When I stepped back outside, Mom was waiting in the car, phone pressed to her ear, sunglasses on. She ended the call as soon as she saw me.
“Well?” she asked. “How was it?”
I didn’t say much. I just handed her the sunglasses back.
“He built something strong,” I said. “It’s still standing.”
“And now it’s yours,” she said softly.
I looked back at the sign one last time.
Brass Ember.
The name made more sense now.
Something strong enough to last, even after the fire.
---
The rest of the day drifted by slowly—simple, quiet. I liked it that way.
We drove back from the restaurant in silence, the soft hum of the car matching the soft throb in my chest. I didn’t say much, and Mom didn’t push. She only looked at me once at a traffic stop, as if to check if I was still holding everything together.
Barely.
At home, the twins were fighting over a packet of cereal and a pink cup. Zainab was on a video call, speaking too loudly about makeup brushes and a party the following weekend. I ignored them all, made a slow meal in the kitchen, and carried my plate to my room.
My punching bag stood by the window like it always had. My books remained untouched on the desk. I showered, changed into one of my usual joggers and a faded shirt, and lay on the bed with the curtains drawn tight.
The city pulsed outside.
But my room was mine. Black, grey, soft shadows.
I didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day.
I didn’t have to.
---
The Next Morning
I woke up to the sound of someone knocking lightly on the door. Not the twins. Their knocks were always chaotic. This one was soft. Rhythmic.
“Ayoola?”
Mom’s voice.
I sat up. “Yeah?”
“Are you awake?”
“I am.”
The door opened just enough for her to peek in. She was already dressed in something casual—jeans, a t-shirt, her hair tied up in a neat bun.
“Let’s go out today,” she said. “To get your hair things. Your creams. Whatever you need.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Okay.”
She stepped in slowly. “You can make a list. Or we just go and walk around until you see what you like.”
I nodded.
“And someone’s coming later in the evening,” she added. “A stylist. Just to wash and treat for now, unless you want braids again. Or anything else.”
It felt strange letting someone else step into our old rhythm.
But not bad.
Just… strange.
“Alright,” I said finally.
---
The store was tucked into a plaza in Lekki—glass front, shelves lined with more options than I’d ever needed. I moved straight to the hair aisle.
“He used to buy the green one,” I murmured.
“Which one?”
I pointed. Mega Growth deep conditioner.
“Every two weeks.”
“Then we’ll take that.”
She handed me a basket. “Get everything you used to use. And anything you’d like to try now. You're allowed to change.”
The word change still scratched against my skin. But I kept moving. I picked the familiar ones first. Then added a few new ones.
When we got to the counter, she paid without blinking—even added a satin pillowcase and some skincare things I didn’t ask for.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Not really.”
---
Later That Day – Stylist Visit
Nkechi came at 4 p.m.
She worked quietly. No small talk. Just warm water, gentle hands, familiar scents.
For the first time in a long time, I let someone care for me without resisting it.
And when she was done, my hair felt like mine again.
Simple.
Soft.
Clean.
Just the way he would have liked it.
- Writer
