( In the kitchen)
Afternoon sunlight poured lazily through the open restaurant windows, turning the floating kitchen steam gold.
The old noodle restaurant stood stubbornly between two faded buildings in one of the older neighborhoods of Lagos. The signboard outside had long lost its original brightness, yet the place remained crowded in the steady ordinary way local restaurants survived through familiarity instead of beauty.
Plastic chairs scraped against tiled floors.
Ceiling fans turned endlessly overhead with tired mechanical sounds.
Customers called for extra pepper across tables.
Someone argued loudly about fuel prices near the entrance.
Children laughed over bottled drinks while elderly women discussed church gossip like national politics.
The entire place breathed warmth.
Not elegance.
Not sophistication.
Just life.
And parked outside among weathered cars and motorcycles sat John's white Toyota HiAce mini van.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
But still expensive enough to attract attention.
John had complained endlessly that morning because Joseph had stolen John's actual car before work and had drove his personal car .
"You need a normal vehicle for once."
"This is normal."
"No," Joseph corrected, "this is rich people pretending simplicity."
Now John stood inside the restaurant kitchen instead of inside a glass office tower.
His blazer hung over the back of a chair.
The sleeves of his pale blue shirt were rolled neatly above his forearms dusted lightly with flour. Heat gathered against his skin from the stoves while faint sweat rested near his neck beneath the heavy kitchen air.
And somehow—
he fit here naturally.
The older woman standing nearby watched with deep satisfaction while pretending to supervise everyone else.
Mary's grandmother.
Sharp-tongued.
Loud.
Frighteningly observant.
She had been Miabella's closest friend and greatest rival since youth.
The kind of friendship built entirely on arguments and loyalty.
After Miabella died, she became one of the few adults who continued visiting both John and Joseph without pitying them.
The moment John entered earlier carrying his laptop, she had dragged him straight into the kitchen before he could properly defend himself.
"You came all the way here just to eat?" she demanded loudly.
"I was nearby."
"You are lying already."
Then she confiscated his laptop completely and locked it inside a large metal cabinet while ignoring his complaints.
"You two," she announced proudly toward the younger kitchen staff, "this is my son-in-law's youngest brother. Isn't he handsome and caring? He came to help us work."
"Absolutely not," John corrected immediately. "I came to eat peacefully, not become free labor again like my teenage years."
"Your teenage years built character."
"They built exhaustion."
Now hours later, she still hovered nearby like military commander overseeing soldiers.
"You are cutting too thick," she barked suddenly toward one worker.
"I'm trying—"
"Try better."
Then immediately toward John:
"More broth on table four."
Favoritism.
Blatant favoritism.
John carried the bowls over without complaint.
The restaurant air wrapped warmly around him as he moved carefully through crowded tables balancing steaming noodles between customers. Several older people looked up immediately once they recognized him properly.
"Miabella's grandson!"
"You disappeared from this area."
"Work," John replied calmly.
"Hm. Rich people excuse."
"You are eating your fourth bowl of noodles."
"That is unrelated."
Laughter spread across nearby tables instantly.
The younger workers kept glancing at him every few minutes.
Because nothing about him matched.
Not the expensive watch sitting forgotten beside sacks of flour.
Not the clean polished way he spoke.
Not the calm intimidating posture even while cooking.
Yet the moment he entered the kitchen—
he belonged there.
Like someone returning somewhere old instead of entering somewhere unfamiliar.
John tied the apron tighter around his waist before reaching for another portion of dough.
The movements returned automatically.
Years ago before companies and boardrooms and magazines, this had once been normal life.
His grandmother believed every child should learn survival properly.
Cooking.
Cleaning.
Managing money.
Repairing things.
"No child of mine will become decoration," she used to say.
So by thirteen, John already handled half the kitchen during busy afternoons while Joseph stole meat from cooling pots and got chased around with wooden spoons.
Now muscle memory guided him naturally.
He pressed the dough flat across the steel counter dusted lightly with flour before rolling it thinner with practiced precision.
One younger worker stared openly.
"Sir… your noodles are straighter than mine."
"They should be."
"How?"
"Discipline."
The worker looked personally attacked.
The old woman barked loud victorious laughter nearby.
"Yes! Shame him!"
John ignored both of them while slicing long even strands into boiling water with frightening accuracy.
Steam rose heavily around him.
Broth simmered deeply inside enormous pots nearby.
Oil crackled loudly beneath frying vegetables.
Metal spoons clanged sharply against cooking surfaces.
The kitchen felt alive.
Hot.
Fast.
Real.
One little girl eating near the counter stared openly toward the kitchen while holding bottled soda with both hands.
Finally she whispered loudly:
"He looks like TV person."
John glanced over while arranging toppings calmly.
"You look like trouble."
The child burst into delighted laughter immediately.
Even her grandmother smiled.
The lunch rush deepened afterward.
Orders piled quickly.
The kitchen became louder.
Hotter.
Faster.
And John moved through it naturally.
Pouring broth.
Seasoning noodles.
Carrying bowls.
Cleaning counters between tasks automatically.
At one point a younger male worker burned his fingers grabbing heated metal.
John reacted instantly.
"Cold water first."
The worker blinked.
"Oh—"
"Not ice immediately. Run water first."
His calm direct tone left no room for panic.
The older woman watched silently from nearby again.
Observing.
Always observing.
Then her sharp eyes narrowed harder.
"You lost weight."
John sighed internally.
Dangerous topic.
"I am fine."
"Your cheeks entered your face."
"That sentence makes no medical sense."
"It makes grandmother sense."
She walked closer now inspecting him openly.
"You look pale."
"The kitchen is literally on fire."
"You look tired too."
John focused harder on arranging vegetables.
Behind him one worker whispered softly:
"She's worried."
"I heard that," the old woman snapped.
Then quieter toward John:
"Are you sick?"
For one brief moment—
the hospital room returned sharply.
Dr. Leo's scans.
The surgery discussion.
Joseph pretending calm.
The terrifying vulnerability of hearing doctors discuss your body like fragile machinery.
John's fingers paused once against the counter before continuing smoothly again.
"Nothing serious."
The old woman stared at him longer than comfortable.
Old people noticed lies differently.
Not through words.
Through pauses.
Still—
she clicked her tongue eventually.
"Hm."
Not convinced.
But allowing temporary escape.
Outside the kitchen window, customers continued arriving steadily.
Some recognized John fully now.
Phones nearly appeared twice before older regulars shut the idea down immediately.
"This is eating place, not paparazzi center."
Respect existed differently in old neighborhoods.
People protected peace.
Protected familiarity.
Protected children they once watched grow up.
Hours passed quietly beneath heat and noise and steam.
And somewhere during the endless rhythm of cooking—
John realized something deeply unsettling.
This was the most relaxed he had felt all week.
Not inside Better Choice.
Not during executive meetings.
Not while discussing million-naira contracts.
Here.
Inside an old noisy noodle restaurant with failing fans, loud grandmothers, crowded tables, and boiling broth.
For the first time in days—
his shoulders no longer felt heavy.
The afternoon rush finally died slowly.
Not suddenly.
Gradually.
Like waves pulling back from shore.
The last customers finished eating beneath the lazy spinning fans while empty bowls stacked higher beside the washing area. Chairs scraped across tiled floors. Someone outside argued about change with a bus conductor. The heat from the kitchen still clung stubbornly to the walls even after the stoves were lowered.
The restaurant would reopen fully again by six for evening business.
For now—
there was breathing space.
John moved quietly through the restaurant carrying a damp cloth and cleaning tables like ordinary staff.
No hesitation.
No embarrassment.
He wiped down wooden surfaces carefully, gathering empty bottles and folded tissue papers left behind by customers. The sleeves of his pale blue shirt remained rolled above his elbows while faint flour still dusted parts of his skin despite washing.
One of the younger workers stared openly.
The man looked too polished for this.
Too controlled.
Yet he cleaned tables with the ease of someone who had done it years before success ever found him.
The older women eating near the entrance watched him with approval.
"Good upbringing," one muttered.
"Miabella would beat him if he acted proud," another replied.
John ignored the commentary calmly.
His movements remained steady despite the ache beginning slowly beneath his ribs again.
Not sharp.
Just there.
Constant.
A reminder.
By the time he finished stacking the final cleaned trays, sweat rested lightly against the back of his neck. The afternoon heat had softened his shirt slightly against his skin while the scent of noodles, broth, and frying oil clung stubbornly to him.
He walked toward the large metal cabinet near the kitchen wall and unlocked it using the spare key hanging beside the shelf.
The heavy lock clicked open.
Inside rested his laptop exactly where the older woman had thrown it earlier.
"Security," she called proudly from across the room. "Unlike your expensive office people."
John rolled his eyes faintly and retrieved the bag.
The restaurant had gone quieter now.
Not silent.
Never silent.
Just calmer.
Fans hummed overhead.
Plates clinked softly near the washing area.
A radio somewhere near the kitchen played old highlife music beneath static interference.
Outside, sunlight had turned warmer, softer, painting the streets gold through the open windows.
John found a clean corner table near the side wall and sat down carefully.
The plastic chair creaked faintly beneath him.
He opened his laptop.
Immediately the world narrowed.
Writing did that to him.
The screen illuminated his calm face while his fingers rested above the keyboard briefly before moving.
Chapter Eight.
His new novel: Catching Your Kite.
Different from his usual work.
Much more physical emotionally.
Rawer.
The story centered around a widow abandoned emotionally long before her husband died. Years later, her in-laws sold her into another marriage for money after deciding she had become burden rather than family.
Rural setting.
Dust roads.
Quiet suffering.
Women surviving inside silence.
No dramatic revenge.
Just exhaustion.
Human loneliness.
And slowly—
unexpected tenderness.
John stared at the blinking cursor for several seconds.
Then typed steadily.
His expression changed subtly while writing.
Less guarded.
Softer somehow.
Like the version of himself hidden beneath business meetings and sharp responses surfaced only here.
The older woman approached carrying a steaming bowl before dropping it loudly beside his laptop.
"Eat something."
John glanced down.
Snail noodles.
His favorite.
Thin handmade noodles soaked in rich broth with sliced vegetables and soft snails simmered deeply into the flavor.
The smell alone tugged old memories from somewhere painful and warm.
"I'm not paying," John said flatly.
Several nearby workers immediately looked toward him in disbelief.
Stingy rich man.
The older woman scoffed loudly.
"You are my son-in-law's younger brother. Of course you won't pay."
Then her voice lowered slightly though still loud enough for everybody nearby to hear intentionally.
"Besides, you think I didn't know you secretly bought this building land so I wouldn't keep struggling with rent these past two years?"
The nearby staff froze slightly.
John sighed immediately.
There it was.
The real purpose.
She was exposing him on purpose so nobody would think he was selfish or arrogant.
He rubbed one hand lightly against his forehead.
"You talk too much."
"And you hide too much."
She folded her arms proudly.
"Terrible habit."
John ignored her and finally lifted one spoonful toward his mouth.
Warmth spread immediately across his tongue.
The texture was soft.
Thin.
Smooth.
The snail flavor rich but balanced perfectly against the broth.
His eyes lowered slightly in appreciation before he took another bite.
"You improved it," he admitted quietly.
The older woman looked offended.
"Of course I improved it. The original recipe you created years ago tasted like emotional punishment."
Nearby workers burst into laughter.
John sighed again.
He should never compliment elderly women.
It encouraged them.
Still—
he kept eating.
Slowly.
Comfortably.
For several peaceful minutes, only keyboard clicks and soft restaurant noise surrounded him.
Then his phone rang.
Joseph.
John answered immediately.
"Why didn't you answer my call one minute ago?"
Even at low volume Joseph still sounded loud.
"Busy," John replied truthfully.
"John Bello," Joseph warned suspiciously, "I hope you are not hiding something from me."
The tone made several nearby workers glance over.
Even the older woman raised one eyebrow slowly.
John unconsciously straightened slightly in his chair.
The reaction happened automatically.
The older woman noticed immediately.
And suddenly—
she remembered Miabella vividly.
Her best friend.
Sharp-eyed.
Warm-handed.
Stubborn.
She remembered the day Miabella announced she was taking in the drunken neighbor's abused son permanently.
The entire neighborhood objected.
Including her.
"Another mouth to feed?"
"That boy has a father."
But Miabella ignored everybody.
And over the years the older woman watched Joseph slowly become exactly what Miabella promised:
A protector.
A brother.
A home.
She had seen Joseph fight boys bigger than himself for insulting John.
Seen John follow Joseph silently through hard years like absolute trust came naturally.
Not blood.
Still family.
Her expression softened quietly watching John now.
"I'm not far," John replied calmly into the phone. "Don't worry too much."
"Have you eaten?"
Joseph switched instantly from suspicious father into overprotective mother.
"No. But soon."
"How soon?"
"Now."
John answered while lifting another spoonful.
The line went quiet briefly.
Then:
"Are you feeling nauseous? Headache? Stomach pain?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Vomiting?"
"No."
Joseph hummed suspiciously through the speaker.
"Spicy or mild?"
John shook his head despite Joseph not seeing.
"No spicy food. Relax."
"Good," Joseph replied immediately. "I'll call again soon. You better answer."
Then he hung up.
The older woman burst into loud laughter immediately.
"He sounds exactly like somebody's father now!"
Even nearby workers laughed softly.
John kept eating calmly though faint embarrassment touched his expression.
"You answer him like schoolboy," she teased shamelessly.
Then softer:
"Miabella would have liked this."
That sentence landed quietly somewhere deep.
John lowered his eyes toward the bowl briefly before continuing to eat.
The older woman walked away toward the kitchen to supervise preparations for the evening reopening while the restaurant slowly woke back up again.
Outside, the streets had grown busier.
Shops reopened shutters.
Motorcycles passed noisily.
The sky dimmed gradually toward evening gold.
John returned to his writing.
The clicking of his keyboard blended softly with restaurant sounds around him.
Then suddenly—
loud laughter erupted behind him.
He frowned slightly before turning.
The older woman and several staff members crowded around holding up a phone toward him.
On the screen played the now-famous video.
Jennifer carrying him bridal-style across the event hall while screaming fans lost control in the background.
One worker nearly bent over laughing.
"She carried you like newly married bride!"
Another pointed at John's frozen expression in the video.
"You looked spiritually kidnapped!"
The older woman wiped tears from laughing too hard.
John stared at them once.
Then calmly returned his attention to the laptop.
Complete refusal.
Which only made them laugh harder.
"You're not embarrassed?" one asked.
"No."
"You should be!"
"She ran very fast too," another added dramatically.
John typed another sentence without looking up.
"She won money. Focus on your jobs."
That only encouraged them further.
The older woman slapped the table laughing.
"Ah! So defensive!"
John finally smirked faintly despite himself.
The laughter around him continued warmly.
Not cruel.
Not mocking.
Just human.
Simple happiness filling the old restaurant beneath evening light.
And somewhere between the laughter, the writing, the warm noodles, and Joseph's annoying phone calls—
John realized something quietly painful.
This feeling—
this ordinary warmth—
was dangerously close to peace.