Chapter Two

The house smelled of onugbu soup, thick with the rich scent of stockfish and palm oil. The dining room was wide, with polished mahogany furniture that gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in golden afternoon light, casting long shadows on the cream-colored walls. A framed portrait of Papa in his chieftaincy regalia hung beside the one of Mama on her wedding day, her gele wrapped high like a crown. The air-conditioner hummed softly, but the windows were cracked open just enough for the distant sounds of the compound—the whistle of the gatekeeper, the soft murmur of house staff cleaning the veranda—to seep in.

We sat around the long dining table, the glass top reflecting our faces as we ate. Mama, seated at the head, dipped her fufu into a steaming bowl of onugbu soup, her movements slow, deliberate. She had barely spoken since we returned from church, offering only nods to Kosi's chatter beside her. Adaora scrolled through her phone, tapping at the screen with perfectly manicured fingers, while Nonso sat with one leg crossed over the other, flipping through an old newspaper as though he were a retired politician.

Obinna, as usual, was restless. He had positioned his phone beside his bowl, angling it just right. "Wassup guys! It's your boy, Obby, back again with another Sunday vlog!" He grinned at his reflection, then threw a wink at Kosi, who giggled and covered her mouth.

Mama exhaled sharply. "Obinna, must you record every second of your life? Eat your food before it gets cold."

"Content is life, Mama," Obinna said, scooping a generous portion of soup. "And life is content."

"Better be content with the food in front of you before I fling that phone away."

I tore off a piece of fufu, dipped it into my soup, and let the bitter leaf coat my tongue. But my mind was elsewhere. On Monday. On English class. On Miss Chioma. The way she read words like they were meant for something more than exams.

The knock on the door was firm, deliberate. Not the hesitant tap of a neighbor or the hurried pounding of a house staff needing permission. It was measured, as though the person on the other side already knew they would be let in.

We all looked up. Even Mama.

Obinna, closest to the door, hesitated before unlocking it. The air shifted as he pulled it open.

The woman standing there wore a deep blue blouse, her arms folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes swept over Obinna, then inside, searching.

"Good afternoon," she said finally, voice smooth. "I am looking for Chief Nwokedi."

Mama stiffened. Adaora put her phone down, a rare thing. Nonso let his newspaper fold onto his lap.

Papa, who had been in his study all morning, stepped into the dining room at that exact moment. He stopped when he saw the woman. His fingers twitched once at his side before he clasped them together.

"What do you want?" His voice was calm. Too calm.

The woman smiled, small and careful. "Just to talk."

Papa's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, before he exhaled and walked toward the door. He stepped out and closed it behind him, leaving the rest of us staring at the empty space where he had stood.

We sat in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Adaora tapped her nails against the glass table, her lips pursed. "Who do you think she is?" she finally asked.

Nonso shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out. "Maybe a business partner," he said, though his tone lacked conviction.

"A woman business partner who shows up at home unannounced?" Adaora scoffed. "Please."

Obinna, who had been leaning toward the door as if to hear better, turned to face us. "Did you see Papa's face? He knows her."

Mama's spoon clattered against her plate. We all turned to her. Her jaw was tight, her shoulders squared, but she said nothing. She picked up a napkin and dabbed the corners of her mouth before pushing her chair back.

"Eat your food," she said, her voice flat. "Your father will handle it."

Then she stood up and left the room, her slippers making soft, deliberate sounds against the marble floor. The conversation ended there, but the questions did not. They hung in the air like the last notes of a song, fading, waiting to be replayed.

I turned back to my food, suddenly less hungry. The onugbu soup had cooled, the oil beginning to congeal at the edges of my plate.

"Do you think she's a relative?" Kosi asked quietly, pushing her fufu around the plate.

"If she were, Mama wouldn't have left the table like that," Nonso muttered.

Obinna stood, stretching. "I'm going outside."

Adaora raised an eyebrow. "To do what? Eavesdrop?"

Obinna smirked. "Exactly."

"Obi, no," I said, though part of me wanted to follow him.

He winked and disappeared through the hallway. Adaora sighed dramatically and picked up her phone again. "This family is always full of drama," she murmured, but I noticed she didn't start scrolling immediately. She, too, was waiting.

Minutes passed. Then, the front door opened, and Papa walked in alone. His face was unreadable as he walked past us without a word, heading straight to his study and shutting the door behind him.

Obinna reappeared seconds later, shaking his head. "I couldn't hear much. But whatever they were talking about, it wasn't small matter."

"It never is," Adaora said, and for once, we all agreed.

That night, as I lay in bed, I could hear the faint hum of voices from Papa's study. Mama's voice was low, sharp, the way it got when she was trying to hold back anger. Papa's was steady, a little too steady. I turned on my side, staring at the ceiling, trying not to listen but unable to block out the weight of whatever had entered our home that afternoon.

I thought about the woman in the blue blouse. About the way Papa's fingers had twitched at his side before he steadied them. About Mama's silence, her deliberate movements, the way she had left the table without another word.

And somehow, I knew that whatever had happened today was only the beginning.