Chapter Seven: A Taste of Rivalry
The following week, Amara's apartment buzzed again. Tola and Kunle had come over for their usual study session, joined this time by Aisha and—unexpectedly—Adaeze.
Amara hadn't planned on cooking for a crowd, but the sight of so many eager faces around her tiny table made her laugh. She pulled out yam, tomatoes, onions, and a sprinkle of the new spice she had discovered at the market.
The stew bubbled, filling the air with its rich, inviting aroma.
"Amara, you've spoiled us," Aisha said, already reaching for a bowl. "We can't eat anywhere else after this."
But as everyone dug in, Adaeze sat straighter than usual, spoon poised midair. "It's good," she admitted. "But it could use balance. Too much heat in the peppers. My mother would've added something to soften the edges."
The table went quiet. Tola's eyes flicked between them, amused. Kunle nearly choked on his yam.
Amara blinked. She had grown used to praise, not critique. "You think so?"
Adaeze gave a small, deliberate nod. "Cooking isn't just about feeding stomachs. It's about precision. Discipline. I'd like to try making it myself next time—if you don't mind."
The challenge hung in the air, unspoken but sharp.
Amara forced a smile, though her chest tightened. "Of course. Cooking is for everyone."
But as the laughter returned to the table, Amara scribbled a quiet thought in the corner of her notebook later that night:
Some meals bring people closer. Others stir something sharper. Maybe even rivalry.
She wasn't sure if Adaeze meant to compete—or if she was simply being honest. Either way, a new tension had entered the kitchen.
And Amara couldn't tell yet whether it would push her forward… or burn her.
The next afternoon, Amara found herself standing in the kitchen with Adaeze, chopping vegetables side by side. The tension from yesterday lingered like a faint spice in the air.
"I'll show you my technique for balancing flavors," Adaeze said, her tone polite but precise. "It's not criticism—it's method."
Amara nodded, rolling up her sleeves. "I'm listening."
They cooked in silence at first, each movement measured, each ingredient carefully added. The smell of onions, tomatoes, and peppers filled the apartment, mixing with the faint tension between them.
As the stew simmered, Adaeze tasted it and furrowed her brow. "Not bad. But try adding a pinch of sugar. It softens the acidity of the tomatoes without overpowering the heat."
Amara tried it. The difference was subtle, but noticeable. She frowned in concentration, then smiled. "You're right. That's better."
Adaeze's lips quirked into a small smile. "See? It's a learning process. Cooking is never perfect on the first try."
By the time they sat down to eat, the tension had softened into a quiet camaraderie. Each bite was richer, layered with their shared effort.
Tola and Kunle watched in awe. "You two should open a restaurant together," Tola said between bites.
Amara laughed, feeling a spark she hadn't expected. Rivalry had been present, yes, but now it felt more like fuel—pushing her to improve, to learn, to create better meals.
Later that night, as she scribbled in her notebook, she wrote:
Recipe Six: Rivalry Stew.
Lesson: Competition isn't just conflict. It can teach, sharpen, and even connect.
Amara realized that Adaeze wasn't just a rival—she was a challenge, a mirror, and maybe, eventually, a friend.
And as the apartment grew quiet, she couldn't help but wonder what their next cooking session would bring.
Halfway through the meal, Adaeze picked up a piece of yam and raised it like a trophy.
"You call this soft?" she teased. "Back home, my mother would say this is undercooked!"
Amara laughed, picking up her own piece. "Understood. Then I'll call it al dente yam—fashionably firm."
Kunle snorted, nearly spilling his stew. "Al dente yam? Who even comes up with this?"
Tola shook her head dramatically. "You two are ridiculous. Just eat before it gets cold."
Adaeze smirked, her competitive edge softened by laughter. "Fine, but next time, I'm bringing my own spice mix. We'll see who truly rules the kitchen."
Amara grinned, feeling the thrill of the challenge. "Bring it. I'm ready."
The rest of the evening passed in laughter, teasing, and playful banter about whose stew was superior. The rivalry had lost its edge of tension and transformed into something lighter, a spark that made the kitchen feel alive and full of possibility.
Later, as Amara cleaned up, she scribbled in her notebook:
Competition can sting… or it can make you laugh. Sometimes it does both.
And sometimes, it just makes dinner more interesting.
For the first time, she realized that rivalry didn't always have to divide people—it could also bring them closer, and push her to discover flavors she hadn't imagined.
As the last spoonfuls of stew disappeared and laughter faded, Amara leaned back in her chair, exhausted but smiling.
She looked around at the empty bowls, the faint scent of peppers and tomatoes still lingering, and realized something: rivalry didn't have to be bitter. It could sharpen her skills, spark new ideas, and even forge unexpected friendships.
Opening her notebook, she wrote one final note for the day:
Recipe Six: Rivalry Stew.
Lesson: Competition can challenge, teach, and inspire—even when it comes with laughter and teasing.
The apartment grew quiet, but inside Amara, a new excitement stirred. If rivalry could be this fun and enlightening, what other lessons—and flavors—awaited her?
She smiled softly, closing her notebook. The kitchen felt alive, and so did she.
End of Chapter Seven.