Arike wished the electric stove would work faster like the speed of light and cook the jollof rice within minutes. Her brother, Bayode, hovered by the door impatiently, sighing every five minutes.
“Our flight is at eight,” he said from the doorway, car keys already in his hand. “My wife and I must be at the airport by six. I told you we can't stay.”
“The jollof needs twenty more minutes.” She didn't turn around. The kitchen was small, built for a family of four and now it held only the two of them and the ghost of their mother's seasoning on every shelf.
They had agreed to sell the house after her funeral. The agent had been there twice, a man with a clipboard and the polite voice of someone who saw only rooms, walls and a selling price. Tomorrow, strangers would walk through these rooms and say things like, ’we could knock this wall down.’
“You're not even eating,” Arike said. “The food is for Rosalyn. You're just standing there like a visitor.”
“I am a visitor, Arike. I haven't lived here in eleven years.”
“That's your choice.”
“Is it?” His voice sharpened. “You stayed but you don't get to make that a medal and hang it on me as a debt.”
The wooden spoon stopped moving. Adaeze wiped her hands slowly on the cloth tucked into her waistband, the same blue towel their mother used to wear, frayed at one corner.
“She asked for you at the end,” she said quietly, her voice cracking and close to tears. “Four times and I sent you messages about it.”
Bayode’s jaw tightened. “I was in Toronto with a visa that wouldn't let me leave and a job that would have fired me. I told you that.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“So what do you want from me?” Memories of their younger days when she would often lean on him as the big brother flooded his mind. He felt like he failed her and their mother when they needed him the most.
Arike stared at the pot of jollof rice steaming on the stove, her gaze distant. She wanted him to say he was sorry. She wanted him to say it was hard for him too, that he lay awake in a cold apartment doing the same arithmetic of what-ifs. Instead she reached for the large knife on the counter, the one their father had sharpened every Sunday and began cutting the plantain with more force than necessary.
Bayode quickly crossed the kitchen in two strides. “Arike, don't pick up that knife! Please. Not while you're this angry.”
She barked a laugh, shaking her head. “I'm merely slicing the plantain, Bayode. What did you think? That I would…” She stopped, set the knife down gently and pressed the back of her wrist to her eyes. “You sounded exactly like Mama just now. She used to say that every time we argued in this kitchen.”
He stood very still. “I know,” he said. “I heard it come out of my mouth.”
For a moment neither of them spoke. The pot ticked on the stove. Somewhere outside, a neighbour's generator coughed to life.
“I should have come,” he said at last. “I'm sorry…really sorry that I wasn't here. For Mama…for you.” Arike nodded and then her brother's arms were around her, smelling faintly of aftershave and of home.
“Stay for the rice,” she said into his shoulder.
He glanced at his watch and nodded. Then he put the car keys down on the counter, pulled out their mother's old stool, picked up the knife and started to cut the remaining plantain. “Twenty minutes. I can do twenty minutes.”
It took forty for the jollof rice and fried plantain to be ready. They ate together as a family, chatting and reminiscing about old times. Neither of them mentioned the flight.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "don't pick up that knife!”.
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