By the time I return home, the sun has shifted and everything inside feels warmer than it should be. My limbs ache not from work, exactly, but from the emotional heaviness of simply being present again. From feeling eyes on me. From pretending I'm not exhausted.
I drop my handbag by the console and kick off my shoes in the hallway. A yawn escapes before I can suppress it. I want something familiar, something warm, something that feels like home in a way that my glass-walled office never quite has.
The kitchen welcomes me like a silent friend. I set my phone on the counter and scroll to find Ajanigo's number. She's a vendor I stumbled on during one of my late-night Instagram scrolls a caterer with roots in the east and a gift for making dishes that taste like somebody's loving aunt made them.
I tap out a message:
> Hi, please can I get a portion of fufu small size and I'll make my oha soup from scratch. Thank you!
She replies with a thumbs-up and a heart. The softness of it makes me smile.
The oha leaves are already in the fridge, next to smoked fish and the wrapped, frozen stock I'd prepped weeks ago. I set everything on the counter and start to work peeling the uziza leaves, rinsing the oha carefully, cutting the goat meat into bite-sized chunks. There's something sacred in this rhythm. Chop. Stir. Season. Taste. I don't think about court cases or missing funds or shareholders.
I just cook.
By the time the fufu arrives neatly wrapped and still warm I've set the table with a single plate and a glass of cold water. I take my time eating, letting each bite linger, the tang of ogiri mixing with palm oil and tender meat. I eat slowly, like I'm honoring something. Myself, maybe. My body. The strange new version of me.
After the meal, I soak the pot in warm soapy water and head to the bathroom.
I stand under the shower longer than usual, letting the stream hit my back like a slow massage. When I finally wrap myself in a towel, the steam has fogged the mirrors. I wipe a circle and look into it.
I look... okay.
Not perfect. Not broken. Just okay.
Back in my room, I curl up in the reading chair with a few documents Tunde had emailed after I left the office financial summaries, upcoming contract drafts, internal HR reports. I make notes with a pen, circling things, underlining names.
Then, restlessness creeps in again.
I slip into a pair of soft cotton joggers, slide my feet into slippers, and step outside. The compound is quiet, bathed in the early night's hush. I walk slowly twice around the perimeter letting the air cool my skin and the stillness settle my mind.
For some reason, my thoughts drift to pets.
I've never had one. Not a cat, not a dog. Never thought I had the patience. But now, as the silence stretches and the house waits for me with nothing inside but my thoughts, I wonder...
Maybe a dog.
A small one. Loyal. Gentle. The kind that waits by the door and senses when you need comfort but doesn't push. The kind that fills the silence without needing to talk.
I laugh softly to myself as I walk back in, locking the front door. I place my phone on the nightstand and search: "Best dog breeds for apartment living."
The results come fast: Bichon Frise. Maltese. Shih Tzu. Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.
I click on each, read through, let my eyes scan pictures.
One particular puppy, a golden-brown Cavapoo, tugs at something in me. The eyes. They look so knowing.
I don't realize when I drift off, phone still glowing faintly in my hand.
The last thing I remember before sleep wraps around me like a quilt is the thought:
Maybe I'll name it Afi. Or Jack. Or even Zoe.
Something soft.
Something sweet.
Something that stays.