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Taiye

HOME FROM THE AIRPORT, Taiye retreated to the kitchen to let Mami, Kehinde, and Farouq embrace. Things felt a bit tense, a bit like all the sweetness was a trick, and a rage would rise up soon enough. Though their mother’s rage hadn’t reared its head since Taiye had been home.

In the kitchen, Taiye checked on the browned pieces of curried chicken roasting on a tray in the oven. Realizing she’d forgotten to stop by the Falomo market to buy tinned tomatoes, she decided to make do with whatever was in the cupboard: maybe palm oil, maybe crayfish, maybe some efirin. Perfect for native jollof, actually.

Rummaging through the cupboards brought to mind a former lover, Kessie, with whom jollof rice had been a topic of heated contention. Kessie was a stubborn woman from Cape Coast, Ghana, whose hedonistic hunger matched Taiye’s near perfectly; their perversions complemented each other’s gorgeously. They’d dated one stunning London summer and allowed things to peter out in early autumn when Kessie went back to school in Leeds. “Dated” is a bit of an overstatement; they’d slept together, frequently, for four months. For Kessie, it was entirely physical. In her words, she “wasn’t a lesbian or anything …” She had just been “bored with men,” and Taiye was “convincing in her advances.” Though it was she who came on to Taiye. But Taiye wasn’t concerned with the details; their ridiculous chemistry had been enough for her. They’d had many Nigerian jollof versus Ghanaian jollof arguments, but Kessie despised cooking and could never defend her claim. So Taiye always won.

Former lovers aside, this is how you make native jollof rice, or, in Efik, iwuk edesi. Because you forgot to buy tinned tomatoes, but you promised your family jollof rice. Everyone knows that you do not casually break promises of jollof rice and survive unscathed to tell the tale. You will need two cups of rice, preferably long-grain white rice, but really, any type of rice will do. You will also need a quarter cup of palm oil, some smoked fish—eja osan would be your best bet—one large onion, a half cup of dried prawns, ground peppers, two tablespoons of ground dried crayfish, one tablespoon of puréed tomato, a small bunch of chopped efirin, half a tablespoon of salt, and a cup of beef stock or two bouillon cubes.

Taiye washed and set the rice to boil until it was nearly fully cooked. She poured the palm oil into a hot pan and let it smoke and settle before adding the sliced onions. She added the tomato and pepper purée, the crayfish, the smoked fish, the bouillon cubes, and some water. Then she put the lid on the pot and let the stew bubble and reduce. The aroma eh, the depth of flavour that crayfish adds to any dish is incredible. Taiye checked on the chicken again and turned the oven off.

Kambirinachi shuffled into the kitchen. Her socked feet muffled her steps, but Taiye knew her mother’s smell.

“So, madame chef,” Kambirinachi said, perching herself on the edge of the counter, “did I do well with the chicken?”

“You did well, Ma.” Taiye smiled and turned to wash her hands.

“I’m sure your brother-in-law is handsome under that bush he has on his face. Do you think that is his normal look?” Kambirinachi tried to appear sombre, but the smile in her voice gave her away.

Taiye burst out laughing and doubled over at the sink. “You know what? I have no idea, but abeg don’t ask him that.”

“Well, I’m just wondering what kind of charm he has if that’s what he is carrying on his face.”

“Oh my God, Mami!”

“Anyway, I hope he eats normal food.”

“I’m sure he eats normal food.”

“I don’t know.” Kambirinachi raised her shoulders and spread her palms up as if in surrender. “Is he not oyimbo? He might be one of those fussy eaters with all the allergies and special diets, or am I wrong?”

“I don’t know for you, o.”

“Ehen, what if he’s a vegetarian?”

Taiye thought for a moment. “There’s efo in the freezer. I’ll cook it without meat.”

“Okay. I just can’t believe you haven’t met him before.” Kambirinachi was being troublesome. “All that time you were in Canada. I thought you went there so you two could be closer.”

“We were in different provinces, Mami. It’s a big country.”

Taiye hadn’t meant to sound derisive, but that was the tone her words took. She began pouring the rice into the simmering stew and was about to apologize when Kehinde walked in. The small talk that followed felt odd to Taiye. There was so much else to say, so much catching up to do. But then it was decided: they would make mosa.

This is how you make mosa with your sister on the day she returns home. You are happy to occupy yourself with this task, as it keeps you from asking if she read the letters you wrote over the years but never intended to send. You will need the following ingredients: several overripe plantains, six heaping tablespoons of flour, four teaspoons of fast-acting yeast, a quarter cup of warm water, Atarodo peppers to your heat preference, a tablespoon of salt, and vegetable oil for frying.

First things first, you’ll have to activate the yeast. You can do this while failing to share with your sister the fact that Banke took it upon herself—without your consent or any sense of boundaries whatsoever—to mail the shoebox full of letters that you had poured yourself into with no intention of sharing ever ever. Taiye had never spoken to anyone with as much loathing as she did to Banke after the girl presented her with the mailing slip like it was a gift.

Second, step aside to keep from getting mushy plantain splatter on your kaftan as your sister enthusiastically mashes the plantains in a bowl.

Third, add the salt as your mother sifts the flour into a large stainless-steel bowl.

Fourth, let your sister add the yeast solution and mashed plantain to the bowl of flour, as she seems the most excited of all three of you about this mosa situation.

Fifth, cover the bowl and let the mixture rest for ten to fifteen minutes.

GOLDEN SUNLIGHT POURED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOWS, making bright swaths on the counter around which the women lingered, waiting for the mosa batter to rise and the rice to cook through. Kambirinachi interrogated Kehinde about Farouq, and Taiye continued to wonder about the letters. The question danced on the tip of her tongue. But how would she ask?

Are you going to ask, Taiye, or are you just going to carry on torturing yourself?

She didn’t want it to matter so much, but it did.

Time had done what it does; that feral, desperate loneliness that led her to begin writing them had shifted. It had shifted her.

“Such a dreamer.” Kambirinachi interrupted Taiye’s thoughts with her teasing. She and Kehinde looked at her with identical expressions of amusement. “Where has Taiye gone now?” her mother asked.

“I’m here.” Taiye smiled, and ran a finger over the scar on her chin. “Sorry.” She stood up. “Let’s check on the batter.”

TAIYE FILLED A CERAMIC SERVING PLATE WITH RICE AND CHICKEN, and a small bowl with mosa, and handed them to Hassan from the kitchen window.

“Na gode, sister,” he said, the words finding their way out through barely parted lips.

“No wahala.”

Taiye imagined it was the smell of the food that roused Farouq from sleep. He had changed into a faded blue T-shirt and jeans cuffed just below his knees. The droplets of water trapped in his beard told Taiye that he’d attempted to rinse the sleep off his face. His eyes searched for Kehinde as he descended the stairs. He planted a kiss on her forehead and, looking at the spread on the dining table, exclaimed, “What a feast!”

The four of them sat at the round glass table, set with raffia placemats and cutlery wrapped in batik napkins. Taiye flitted in and out of the kitchen with tray after tray of dishes to be shared. Rice bejewelled with large pieces of smoked fish, crayfish, and aromatic efirin; gorgeously browned chicken; small balls of mosa; and that obscenely decadent chocolate cake. Far more food than the four of them could reasonably consume in one sitting.

Looking unabashedly at Taiye’s face, in her eyes, Farouq said, “You’re identical, yeah.” His eyes darted from Taiye to Kehinde. “But you look so different.”

His slight lisp endeared him to her, made his beauty less intimidating. She found him beautiful in the same way that she did the pearlescent life-sized marble sculpture of the Virgin Mary at the side entrance of the Falomo Catholic church. The statue was gorgeous to see and easy to fear, but never open to touch. Quite the opposite of her typical instinct upon seeing a beautiful thing. A beautiful person.

“It’s the scar,” Taiye said, averting her eyes from Farouq’s intense gaze. That was it: she found him intense.

“You’re acting as if you’ve never met twins before,” Kehinde said, slapping his arm, “Stop embarrassing me, jare.”

“No, it’s not that,” Farouq said.

“Maybe it’s because they’re different people,” Kambirinachi offered with false innocence.

Farouq caught on and smiled. “Ah, I don’t know what sort of magic you women have …”

“Maybe it’s because I’m fatter,” Kehinde said, and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, darling, why would that matter?” Kambirinachi cooed.

“It seemed to matter a lot when we were small,” Kehinde’s tone was cold, “and you loved pointing it out.”

“Keke, I’m your mother. It’s my divine right to tease my children!” As she served herself a generous slice of cake, Kambirinachi added, “Anyway, a bit of fat never killed anyone. Your sister loaded this with butter!” She ate a large forkful and moaned dramatically.

Kehinde looked away.

“Babe, you’re perfect,” Farouq offered, an attempt at easing the sudden tension.

Then, silence but for the scraping of cutlery on dishes.

Taiye got up and walked to the corner of the living room where old movies on VHS and VCD, and music on cassette, CD, and vinyl were stacked against the wall in precarious towers.

“I found Popsie’s records,” she said quietly, slipping a shiny black disc from its dusty sheath.

Moments after the needle dropped, the fluid voices of the Lijadu Sisters gliding over a mellow bass on the song “Amebo” filled the room.

“Remember this?” Taiye asked.

Kehinde nodded, a faint smile easing the tightness of her face. “Yes.”