Dinner With Daggers
The Okonkwo family home in Gwarinpa was pristine, intimidating, and silent as a church. Mama Okonkwo welcomed them in a traditional Ankara wrapper, her gaze sharp.
"Favour, you're welcome."
"Thank you, ma," Favour said, curtseying politely.
Daniel's father sat quietly in a recliner, observing, but the center of attention was the long dining table, a full spread of Nigerian delicacies ofe oha, nkwobi, jollof, pepper soup sat steaming and perfect.
"You cooked all this, ma?" Favour asked.
"No," Mama Okonkwo said coolly. "My daughter-in-law did."
Favour's heart skipped.
And then a slim woman in a soft pink gown entered the dining room.
"Ijeoma," Daniel said, standing briefly.
Favour blinked. Ijeoma.
The name she had heard only once in passing, Daniel's ex the one who nearly became his wife.
Mama Okonkwo smiled. "Ijeoma helped. She always loved to cook."
Favour sat down slowly, tasting bile in her throat instead of the soup. The dinner was polite, but every bite she took felt like a cut. Mama Okonkwo kept steering the conversation toward home values, tradition, domestic balance.
At one point she turned to Favour. "So, my dear, what's your favorite dish to cook for Daniel?"
Favour forced a smile. "Ogbono soup."
Ijeoma coughed softly.
Daniel didn't say a word.
And Favour knew this wasn't dinner, it was war.