Can we try again?

Three.

"Silence sometimes speaks louder than words."

Oma didn't return until 8 p.m. She had the face like a thunder as she came in. I was sat on the chair in the living room and she walked past me, straight into the bedroom, not acknowledging my presence. She didn't have the smile on her face. To be honest, in my years of knowing her, I haven't seen her this way. Except the one time I accidentally dropped her brand new iPhone in the toilet. She'd screamed at the top of her lungs and cursed my clumsiness. At least, then, I was still able to get few words from her, even though she was deeply annoyed.

Not this time. She is absolutely livid. I can tell by the look on her face, because no matter what I'd done in the past, she has never had this look she has now. Never.

It seems that I'd struck a nerve by bringing up the subject of abortion. I didn't really understand why she took it so serious. It was my life, therefore my choice to make. Why was she bothered anyway? She was taking it too personal for my liking.

Anyway, I don't care. I would go through with it; my mind was made up. Oma was probably just being irascible because she wasn't getting her way. Give it a day or two and she'd come round; she'd be smiling with me again. Tomorrow, I'd find someone who knows someone who could take care of things but until then, I just needed to go about my business like nothing's changed. No one would suspect anything, that's how I wanted it.

I stood up and went into our bedroom. Oma was sat on the bed, her laptop resting on her thighs, headphones plugged in. She was probably watching an episode one of her Empire series, or probably the Walking Dead or Game of Thrones; she had so many she was into. For months now, she'd been trying to get me into binge watching series on Netflix, but it just wasn't my thing.

She looked up at me from where she was sitting on her bed, said nothing and turned her head back to her laptop screen. I wondered how long this was going to go on. Hopefully, not long, because I didn't like the whole silent treatment thing.

"Is there anything to eat?" I asked casually. "I'm hungry o."

Oma looked at me, stone-faced. "Don't you know where the kitchen is?" she snarled and turned her eyes back to the laptop.

Oh my goodness, who was this girl in front of me? It's definitely not the Oma I know. This is not my best friend. I want my best friend back.

I opened my mouth to protest, but decided against it. It was useless. There was nothing I could say to her at this moment. I shook my head and walked away from the room into the kitchen. I searched around but there was nothing appealing to me. Left over rice rested at the bottom on the pot on the cooker. I wasn't in the mood for that. There was also some cooked beans in the fridge, but I didn't fancy that either.

Then I remembered it was Saturday, which meant Oma was supposed to have stuck up the fridge with her mouth-watering dishes. Oma was a very good cook, unlike me, who could, at my best manage to prepare a packet of Indomie noodles. The only time you see me go into the kitchen is to get some food to eat, not to make it.

From jollof rice with chicken, to all kinds of soup with assorted meat to curry, pasta, pancakes; both African and intercontinental dishes, Ijeoma could prepare them all. She could also make cakes and pastries. It was a gift she had. Whenever her hands got a hold of the spices and ingredients, they take action and move with such finesse that I always wonder how on earth she does it.

"I wish I could cook like you," I told her once.

"MiMi, some people's just got it and you, unfortunately are one of those who hasn't." She'd said and we both laughed.

I put in money towards our feeding and most times go to the market with her to purchase the items; I also might help in the kitchen in the way I can, but when it comes to the actual cooking, I never do it. Oma wouldn't even let me, that's how bad I am. Once, she let me parboil some rice and I nearly burnt down the flat. Another time, when she was ill, I made some stew, or rather tried to, and we ended up pouring it away because it tasted like over salted raw tomatoes.

My mum always gave me a hard time about not being able to cook. She'd tell me no man would want to marry me, if I can't prepare a good meal. It was the typical African mentality; as a woman, you need to be able to cook for your husband; a mandatory job.

"You better learn, and fast, Samira. The way to a man's heart, is his stomach," she'd say.

Well, no problem, I will find another way to his heart, it doesn't necessarily have to be his stomach. Whenever she's in the kitchen, she'd call me in, and tell me to watch as she does it, so I could learn. But still . . . nothing.

I've come to a conclusion that cooking is a skill that you're born with and like Oma said, some people's just got it and others don't; and I fall into the latter category. I agree, I'm hopeless at cooking and always will be and honestly I'm not ashamed to proclaim it.

Oma doesn't mind cooking all the time, not only because she's she good at it, but she takes pleasure from it, plus she said she wouldn't want me to poison her with my cooking. I don't disagree with her.

Now, I'm standing here in the empty kitchen and my tummy is rumbling from hunger, all because my friend and cook is annoyed and not speaking to me.

I sighed and shut the fridge in frustration. I looked towards the 'emergency' cupboard. Like the name, it's the cupboard we keep emergency food. Boxes of cereals, tins of sardines, geisha, and corned beef, sachets of milk and chocolate drink, packets of sugar, tea and tubs of butter were neatly stacked in this cupboard and oh don't forget the ultimate indomie noodles.

I fished out a box of corn flakes and tipped some in a bowl. I emptied two sachets of milk, dropped in two cubes of sugar, and added some water. There. Dinner served.

I took it into the living and sat down to eat. I wondered if Oma would come out to prepare something for herself, even as I thought it, I knew she wouldn't. She would be in the room, watching her series until she falls asleep. Perhaps, she'd already had dinner out; or maybe she's too upset to eat.

After eating, I took my bowl into the kitchen, rinsed it away, and put it on the sink.

Oma was still watching her show, as expected, when I walked back into the room. This time, she didn't look at me. The silence was killing me inside, but I too, made no effort of speaking to her.

Two can play the game.

We had a simple medium sized room; mine and Oma's single beds were beside each other, with a little bedside table separating them. There was a dresser at one corner of the room and a mirror next to it. A reading desk and table was pushed against the wall on the other corner of the room. We had been really fortunate in our first year to get a good, sizable flat.

I changed into my pyjamas and flopped on my bed. I felt exhausted. I didn't know if it was because of the whole abortion fiasco and the silent treatment I was getting out of it, or if it was the pregnancy already taking its toll on me. Surely, it was too early for that to happen, wasn't it?

The thought that a tiny creature was living inside, made me shudder.

Am I making the right decision? What if Oma's right? What if something goes wrong in the process? I don't want to die now. I still have so many things I'd like to accomplish. And it wouldn't be a good way to die anyway. "Died through an abortion" on my gravestone doesn't portray me in a good way.  

No. No. I have to stay positive. I pushed the thought to the back of my head, into the box where I shoved other irrelevant thoughts. I'll be fine, there'll be no complications.

I looked over at Oma, who was still involved in her series, she didn't even pay me a single glance. A little sadness washed over me. At this time, we would be gisting before one of us would finally give in to sleep - it was normally me first. 

I sighed heavily and turned to the other side, praying that tomorrow would be a better day . . . Soon everything would be back to normal. Fingers crossed.