The compound buzzed with the noise of evening life. Children ran in circles around the veranda, their bare feet slapping against the dusty ground as they shrieked in a game of tag. A goat bleated impatiently from one corner where it was tethered to a post. The air was thick with the smell of frying plantain and freshly ground pepper, drifting from the kitchen at the back of the house.
Glory sat on a wooden chair under the eaves, her suitcase beside her, watching the small storm of cousins dart back and forth. Some of them she barely recognized — they had grown so much. Uduak, once a scrawny boy always crying when his older brothers teased him, now looked nearly as tall as Abraham. His voice cracked when he shouted at the smaller children to stop chasing the chickens.
Her mother's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Glory! My daughter, don't just sit there. Come and help me with this soup."
Glory smiled, rising. She followed the familiar path through the narrow corridor that led to the backyard kitchen. The small firewood stove glowed red in the corner, smoke curling lazily into the twilight. Her mother stood with a wooden spoon in hand, stirring a pot of afang soup.
"Amesiede, Mama," Glory greeted, slipping easily back into the rhythm of her native dialect.
Her mother glanced at her, amusement tugging at her lips. "Hmm. Now you remember Ibibio? In Lagos you would have said only 'good evening.'"
Glory laughed softly, picking up a knife to slice the last of the waterleaf stacked on a tray. "Mama, you think Lagos can wash everything out of me? Never."
They worked side by side for a while, the only sounds the scrape of knife against wood, the bubbling of soup, and the muffled chatter of the family outside. For Glory, the rhythm felt comforting, almost hypnotic. She hadn't realized how much she had missed the simple intimacy of cooking with her mother — the wordless understanding, the small corrections, the shared silence.
But silence, she soon remembered, rarely lasted in her mother's company.
"So," Mama began, tilting her head slightly without taking her eyes off the pot, "when will I be hearing good news from you?"
Glory froze mid-slice, her knife pausing on the cutting board. "Good news?"
"Don't play games with me, Glory Ikpe. You know the kind of good news I mean."
Glory sighed. She had known this was coming. In Lagos, she had managed to dodge her mother's questions with excuses about work deadlines and busy schedules. But here, in the warm glow of the kitchen fire, excuses felt flimsy.
"Mama," she began carefully, "I'm still building myself. Marriage will come at the right time."
Her mother shot her a sharp look. "At the right time? You are twenty-three. When will the right time be? When your hair is grey?"
Glory forced a laugh, though her chest tightened. "Mama, please. You want me to marry just anybody? Let me find someone who—"
"Someone who what?" Mama cut in, dropping the spoon against the side of the pot. "Someone richer than Dangote? Someone with a house in Banana Island? Glory, I only want you to be happy. Look at your mates — Chiburuoma is marrying next week. Even Ngozi from church already has two children."
The words stung more than Glory wanted to admit. She placed the knife down slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Mama, I am happy. My job in Lagos is good. I have built a life for myself. Isn't that something?"
Her mother's expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained sharp. "It is something, yes. But life is not only work. A woman's heart also needs a home. You cannot sleep in your office, Glory."
Before Glory could respond, her cousin Uduak burst into the kitchen, breathless. "Mama Eka, is the food not yet ready? Everyone is waiting!"
Her mother clucked her tongue and shooed him away, but the moment had already passed. She returned to stirring the pot, muttering, "We will finish this talk later."
Glory exhaled quietly and carried the tray of chopped leaves outside.
---
Dinner was spread across two long tables set up on the veranda. Bowls of steaming rice, afang soup, fried plantain, and grilled fish filled the air with tantalizing aromas. The family gathered quickly, laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls.
Glory found herself squeezed between her younger cousins, who bombarded her with questions about Lagos.
"Is it true the buses there have air conditioners?" one asked.
"Do celebrities walk around the streets?" another chimed in.
"Bring me iPhone when you go back!" shouted a third.
She laughed, answering as best as she could, exaggerating here and there just to see their eyes widen. For a while, she forgot the heaviness of the kitchen conversation.
Abraham joined them midway, slipping into a seat near the edge of the table. His presence, quiet but steady, drew her attention almost immediately. He spoke little, but whenever he did, the younger cousins leaned in eagerly, as though his words carried extra weight. Glory noticed how naturally he fit into the rhythm of the family, how he smiled patiently at the children's antics, how her mother beamed whenever he spoke.
"You see, Abe is like one of my own sons," Mama announced suddenly, glancing at Glory as though daring her to disagree. "He never forgets his people."
Glory forced a smile, her spoon lingering midair. Heat crept up her neck. Why did her mother always know how to place her exactly where she didn't want to be?
Across the table, Chiburuoma caught Glory's eye and raised her brows mischievously, biting back a grin. Glory shot her a warning glare, but it only made Chiburuoma chuckle into her glass of palm wine.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of stories, teasing, and arguments about politics. By the time the plates were cleared, night had fully descended, and the compound was lit only by kerosene lamps and the soft glow of the moon.
---
Later, when everyone had dispersed, Glory retreated to her old room. The familiar wooden bed creaked as she sat on the edge, running her fingers across the carved headboard. The walls were still painted the same faded blue. A few old posters of music stars from her teenage years clung stubbornly to the corners.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling. The hum of crickets outside filled the silence.
Lagos had never given her this kind of stillness. Out there, the nights buzzed with horns, generators, and urgency. Here, the quiet seemed to press into her, demanding she listen to the questions she had managed to ignore for years.
She thought of her mother's words. Of Abraham's quiet presence at the dinner table. Of the way her cousins looked at her with both awe and distance, as if she was theirs and yet not entirely so.
Had she really outgrown this place? Or had she only convinced herself she had, because it was easier than admitting she still belonged here in ways she couldn't explain?
She closed her eyes, pulling the thin blanket over herself. Tomorrow would bring more questions — from family, from friends, perhaps even from her own heart.
For now, she let sleep claim her, though not before one last thought slipped through her mind like a whisper:
Coming home might be harder than leaving ever was.