Must Date The Chef

|| 44.

Being in the office feels strange. Stranger than hearing Mr Adams grudgingly agree to let me stay back and work until the end of this month. That man is stubborn but I am too. I blink to clear my vision, my eyelids grow heavier and a yawn escapes me, it is a wonder I have not dropped dead from exhaustion. Reaching for the first file from the pile on my desk, my fingertips trail the edges until I find the alphabet I am looking for and eventually, the name. His name.

Aaron.

I don't know what I am looking for yet but I keep flipping through until I land on the page with his passport stapled to it. My eyes skim the information provided about him on that page, his age has my jaw dropping, I gulp. He was only twenty-two. Too young to have let himself be consumed by the need for revenge. I groan. For six years, that was all he thought about. I close my eyes briefly and force myself not to think of the fact we took the life of a boy almost the same age as my younger sister. He brought it on himself.

Nothing from his profile highlights his sick and troubled personality, I retrieve the file of another male staff, place it side by side and compare the passport photograph of two of them. Stupid and tiring but the only way I know how to spend my morning, I can't help it. The feeling of doom hanging over me supersedes the voice of reasoning, I have to double-check. If I had checked the staff list the first time, I might have known.

Satisfied by the differences between them, I place the file behind my laptop and reach for another. It is the PR's job to scrutinize the applicants, get the best fit for us but I don't want anyone with a similar appearance as him working for us anymore. I can never feel safe with them on the same premises.

Emptying the last of the sweets in my bowl into my mouth, I close my eyes and press two fingers to my temples, massaging until the building headache subsides. I miss my sweetheart. My insides knot, I wince as my phone rings and place a file above it once I sight the caller. I don't want to speak to her, I want to speak to her brother. Only him.

The call ends, the phone resumes ringing at once, I scowl and put it on silent mode, my eyes on the screen as a notification pops up to show I have two missed calls. I have no idea what she wants to say but I am not sure I want to hear it. I am running on a few minutes of sleep, I don't need a scolding.

My heart misses a beat when my screen lights up with my mother's picture, I gulp and hesitantly swipe on the screen. "Mmá."

Her voice floats into my ear, takes form and settles over me like her arms always do when I am having a bad day and the tension in my shoulders dissipates. A smile crawls up my lips, I reply with greater enthusiasm when she reminds me how much she has missed her baby. That is how I want Paul to sound when he returns my calls or texts. I giggle and massage my cheek with the back of my palm, I miss her more. I miss home.

Laughter rings out in the background, a tiny giggle follows it, I straighten up and frown.

"When are you coming home?" she asks.

The frown etched on my face deepens into a small scowl, I should have known, Mr Adams's never gives up that easy. Too bad, he can't get rid of me. I will be here till next week, Paul can't ignore me for that long.

"End of this month," I finally reply and she bursts into an Igbo hymn of gratitude. I roll my eyes, I don't visit home as much but I call often. Happiness is evident in her voice when she promises to prepare all our local delicacies for me. I nod and giggle when she calls me out on my limited kitchen skills, taunts me about my skinny figure. "Mmá." She has given up on trying to teach me how to cook, no matter how much I eat, she still considers me skinny. "I don't like Abacha."

She giggles, I smile. "You will like this one." I nod, I will, I love her cooking, as much as Paul's, maybe more. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes." A pause ensues, I clear my throat, she knows me better than anyone. I hear the strange laughter again. "Are you alone?"