He turned fully toward me. "My name," he said, "is Kael… Kael Rubian."
Adeola laughed. "This your name, o ga. All these duke names, I wonder where these writers used to get them from."
The Duke, visibly confused, just said, "Until we figure out why the book chose you or why you are even here, you are a threat to my world."
Adeola just looked at him and hissed. "Me, that I have not committed a crime before I reached here, and suddenly I am a threat? Emi kọ́ ni jagunjagun."
They kept talking, forgetting about the unstable readings and the guard beside them, until the guard asked what he should do if the others found out there is an alien in their world. Upon hearing this, worry crept upon Kael's face.
"We should just hide her and tell everyone that it is acting up again," the guard suggested.
Adeola's stomach suddenly grumbled loudly. She held her stomach, realizing she had not eaten all day. "Leave hiding alone, I need to eat!"
That gave Kael an idea. "Why don't we put her in the kitchen as a chef? No one really pays attention to the kitchen staff."
Adeola loved the idea, since she could finally do what she loves the most—cooking.
After leaving the archives, they took her straight to the kitchen. It looked like an ancient, massive stone hall. Huge iron cauldrons hung over roaring open hearths, and rows of heavy wooden tables were lined with sharp knives.
Actually, it looked like a medieval torture chamber disguised as a restaurant. There were no gas cookers, no blenders, and definitely no ambient lighting. Just soot, sweat, and a giant wooden crate full of things that looked like hairy potatoes.
A tired-looking chef was currently stirring a massive pot of gray, bubbling slime that smelled faintly of wet grass.
"Omo," I whispered, taking a step back. "Is this what you people eat? No wonder the Duke looks like he wants to murder everyone. This is depression in the bowl.
Rather than looking hurt, the chef looked happy that someone new was cooking today. Adeola was surprised by the chef's reaction. She started feeling pity for him—even if the food looked like this, he was still trying.
Suddenly, her situation reminded her of Bon Appétit, Your Majesty, where the main character was whipping up food like she was performing magic.
Will I even be able to cook like that? I thought. No, that will be too cliché. How do I even want to make Naija food here, to be sure?
She then asked the chef to bring all the ingredients they had. What they brought were things she had never seen before. She was already thinking of eating the poison they were cooking, but suddenly remembered the book. If it brought her here, it should be able to bring ingredients for her.
As if knowing what she was saying, a Shoprite nylon bag dropped out of nowhere. Inside was a Derica of rice in a ziplock bag,onions, tomato paste, chili pepper, maggi, curry.
Everyone in the kitchen looked dumbfounded, and Adeola exclaimed, "As how?! Did this book just rob Shoprite?!"
My stomach rumbling brought my senses back. I just needed to cook. The book could forget about its thievery for now.
"You," I told the chef, "get me a clean pot and oil."
I put the pot over the fire and poured the oil inside. After that, I added the onions and tomato paste, mixing it all together. The intense aroma filled the air, almost choking the chef.
He got curious and asked what I was making. I said, "Jollof rice."
I opened the crushed Ata Rodo and poured it in, letting the heat of the fire marry the pepper and the tomato paste together. The kitchen assistant took one sniff of the rising steam and let out a violent cough, scrambling backward like I had just released mustard gas.
"Don't faint oo," I told him. "Maybe you should wait outside the kitchen until I finish cooking. Ordinary small pepper and you are already crying? If I had brought out the full-strength Lagos market pepper, you would have fainted ."
Then came the real magic—not the book's kind, but mine. I crumbled the Maggi cube directly into the bubbling mixture, the savory scent instantly upgrading the entire room. Finally, I tossed in the curry, watching the sauce turn a beautiful, rich orange-red color.
The steam rising from the pot was powerful. It didn't just smell good; it smelled like Sunday afternoon in Nigeria.
I took the long-grain rice from the ziplock bag, washed it quickly, and dumped it straight into the pot. I stirred it thoroughly, making sure every single grain of rice was coated in that glorious, spicy red sauce.
I covered the heavy pot with its iron lid and stepped back, wiping a bit of sweat from my forehead.
"Now," I muttered to myself, my own stomach screaming for a bite. "We wait for it to steam."
I stood guard over the stove, watching the steam hiss from the edges of the lid. You can't rush perfection. It must be smoky—that is the best.
Just as the aroma reached its peak, cutting through the damp, cold air of the castle, the heavy wooden doors of the kitchen creaked open.
A shadow stretched across the stone floor.
I turned around. Standing in the doorway, his dark fur cloak catching the light of the fire, was the Duke himself. Kael Rubian. His crimson eyes swept over the weeping guard in the corner, looked down at the bright yellow Shoprite nylon bag near my feet, and finally locked onto the bubbling pot of rice.
I turned and saw him standing there like he was seeing through me. Ahhh, na werey full this place.