Chapter Six: The Unexpected Guest
The next evening, Amara decided to recreate her spiced tomato stew. The memory of the market still lingered, and she wanted to practice before the flavors faded from her mind.
As the stew simmered on the stove, its aroma spread through the apartment, slipping out into the hallway and curling under doors.
She was just about to taste it when—knock, knock.
Amara froze. She wasn't expecting anyone. Tola had texted earlier that she wouldn't be free, and Kunle never knocked—he barged in like family.
Knock, knock.
Hesitantly, she opened the door.
A young woman stood there, arms crossed, nose tilted slightly in the air. She wore a sharp blazer, and her polished shoes didn't quite fit the worn-down student apartment corridor.
"Sorry to bother you," the woman said, though her tone wasn't apologetic at all. "But that smell—what are you cooking?"
Amara blinked, caught off guard. "Um… tomato stew. With yam."
The woman's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then softened. "I knew it. It smells exactly like my mother's back home."
Before Amara could respond, the stranger smiled faintly. "I'm Adaeze. I just moved into the next building. And I haven't figured out how to use the gas cooker in my flat yet."
Amara hesitated, glancing at the bubbling pot behind her. She hadn't planned to share tonight. But something in Adaeze's voice—lonely, but proud—echoed her own struggles from weeks ago.
"Would you… like to join me?" Amara asked slowly.
Adaeze raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by the offer. Then, after a pause, she nodded. "I'd like that."
As Amara set an extra bowl on the table, she realized her recipes were doing more than feeding friends. They were pulling strangers into her life—one unexpected guest at a time.
Amara ladled stew into two bowls and set them on the small table. Adaeze sat down carefully, her posture straight, as though she were still in some boardroom rather than a student apartment.
They ate in silence at first. Adaeze took small, measured bites, her face unreadable. Amara suddenly felt nervous, as if she were being judged on every spoonful.
Finally, Adaeze spoke. "This… is good."
Relief flooded Amara, and she let out a soft laugh. "You had me worried. You were so quiet."
Adaeze smirked. "I don't hand out compliments easily. But this stew tastes… familiar. My mother used to make something like this when I was little. I thought no one could match her flavor."
The words carried both pride and something else—longing. Amara recognized it instantly.
"You must miss her," Amara said gently.
Adaeze's spoon paused mid-air, then lowered back into the bowl. "I do. But it's complicated. My family expects a lot from me. They don't exactly see cooking as… useful. They'd rather I focused on law school and politics."
Amara's eyes widened. "Law school?"
Adaeze gave a small nod. "I transferred here this semester. Top of my class back home. But here… it feels different. Lonely. And tonight, when I smelled this stew…" She shrugged, her voice softening. "It felt like home knocked on my door."
The words settled between them, heavier than the food.
Amara smiled, pushing the second loaf of bread toward Adaeze. "Then maybe this can be your home, too. At least on nights when the world feels too heavy."
Adaeze studied her for a long moment before breaking into a rare, genuine smile. "You're strange, Amara. Most people guard their food like treasure. But you… share it like it's air."
"Maybe because I know what it feels like to need both," Amara replied quietly.
They finished the meal without pretense. No more silence, no more walls. Just two women from different worlds, sharing warmth over stew and bread.
When Adaeze left that night, she paused at the doorway. "Next time, I'll bring something," she said firmly. "I don't know how to cook yet, but I'll figure it out."
And for the first time in a long while, Amara realized her recipes weren't just feeding bodies—they were building bridges.
After Adaeze left, Amara stood for a moment at the doorway, listening to the fading echo of her footsteps in the hallway. The apartment was quiet again, but it no longer felt empty.
She cleared the dishes, humming softly as she worked. Then she opened her notebook and wrote:
Recipe Five: Spiced Stew with New Company.
Lesson: Some guests arrive uninvited but leave behind warmth you didn't know you needed.
Closing the notebook, Amara smiled. First friends, now strangers who felt like family—her little recipes were weaving threads she hadn't expected.
And deep down, she knew more unexpected guests—and unexpected stories—were waiting ahead.
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End of chapter