The First Cut
Auntie Rose was a kitchen general. Nkechi's mother's cousin. Short, wide, and commanding, with a voice that could peel yam from across a room.
"You dey say you wan learn how to cook?" Auntie Rose barked. "You think say this na WhatsApp class?"
Favour stood, apron tied, hands trembling with a knife. "I'm ready, ma."
"Good. Then chop onions without tears. If you cry, you go do it again."
The kitchen was hot. The sweat rolled down her back. The yam porridge they started with had specific layers-pepper ratio, crayfish timing, red oil balance, salt control.
And discipline.
"You no dey taste your food when you cook?"
Favour shook her head.
Auntie Rose tsked. "Then how you go know wetin be mistake? Taste your own soup. Suffer am. Then you go grow."
Favour obeyed. Her tongue burned. The pepper was wrong.
But she smiled.
It was the taste of change.