Coming Back to You

A Taste of Something New

Chuka had never been addressed with this nickname before. He didn't seem used to being called anything other than his government name—or, in even more unfortunate circles, "that guy who never texts back." When he opened his phone at 12:55 a.m. and read "babe" from Vivian, he had to read it twice, rub his eyes, and cross-check the name.

Vivian.

The girl was quick-witted and had flame reactions, and the confidence level was between Beyoncé and a TED Talk speaker fueled by caffeine. They'd met two weeks ago at a friend's birthday party. She had volleyed fun at his decision to order Sprite from a bar only to take away half of it. In some way, it caused their first date, which then turned into prolonged phone calls and lengthy text threads, and now – apparently – they are being addressed as "babe."

He texted back:

"I've never been called babe before so when you called me that it was weird 😂"

Vivian's response was a sticker of a grinning cartoon frog rolling on the floor in laughter.

You are this sad, destitute boy 😂😂😂. I have so much pity for you… Don't freak out; you'll get used to it over time 😂😂 "

Chuka smirked.

She could gently drag at him and make him feel like no other man existed in the world. It was confusing and charming. On the surface, however, he leaned into the poetry, and his eyes flitted from admiration to mock horror as she read the rest of her message:

"You are already into your third decade of life on this planet, and this is your first time being called a babe?

He burst into a roll of laughter, sniffing like a horse.

"Shut up"

"What did you message me sef?"

I wanted to know when you will be returning.

"Coming back to where?"

"To your house."

He blinked.

"Why did you keep saying 'coming back' as if you're in my house?"

"Cos I'm in your house."

He sat up in his office meeting room like he had sat on a live wire.

The Intruder with a Key

"What?" he whispered into his breath.

His colleague James raised his head from his laptop. "Everything okay?"

Chuka chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah, yeah, just… relationship stuff."

The baggage he bundled in no time at all, as if his ticker was in arrears to him and beat his ribs soundly for rent.

Vivian was in his house. The same Vivian he had given the key casually told himself because she had forgotten her charger one day and had dropped by. He hadn't considered that she would use it.

He had sprinted away home, double-stepping his way there.

He saw her sitting on his couch in bunny slippers, with a bowl of plantain chips in her lap, and the TV was set to a Nollywood soap opera.

She winked and said to me, Welcome home, babe.

He stared, breathless. "You weren't kidding."

Vivian laughed and pointed at the dining table. "Dinner's ready. I cooked for you."

The Plate of Doom

Trying to retrieve his breath and pride, he drew near the plate. He felt more torn up in his lifetime.

The plate contented us with…a pile of dark gray food that resembled a cannonball, surrounded by a deep red ocean of stew with golden plantains. The plantains looked promising. The rest? He wasn't sure.

"What… is this? He asked cautiously.

Vivian beamed. "Your meal 😉"

She withdrew her phone and took a snap before he uttered another word. "Here you go, babe 😘" she said, sending it to him while he was in the room.

Chuka's phone buzzed. He stared at the image of her and then back at the plate. He sent her a meme involving a cartoonishly smirking fellow whose eyes are as large, wide… She burst into laughter.

He picked up a fork. "You know, you didn't need to accomplish all this. I appreciate the effort, but—"

'Nope,' she intervened, 'I like cooking.' It's a passion of mine, and I do it cos I love to".

He tilted his head. "You do?"

"In fact," she said with striking conviction in her eyes, "I dream of being a chef. And I would want you to try my cooking.

The pressure increased tenfold.

He took a bite.

Love and Laughter

It was… different.

The swallow – what he knew to be a homemade, aggressively fermented lump of elubo yam dough flour – was surprisingly heavy. The stew was spicy and tangy, with an air of smokiness that reminded him of open-market suya joints. The plantains were the lifesaver: sweet, crispy, and golden. He chewed thoughtfully, then looked up.

Vivian looked at him like a contestant looks at a judge while awaiting the verdict.

"It's… interesting."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Okay. The stew slaps. The plantain is elite. The… gray thing… is acquired taste."

Vivian burst into laughter. "It's called amala and it's not that 'gray thing. You uncultured man!"

Chuka also laughed and was almost suffocated from his next bite laughing. "You didn't warn me! It was as if it was a bomb of charcoal."

"You'll get used to it," she said, smirking. Moreover, if we are to continue dating, you better begin to enjoy the food of Yoruba.

He stared at her.

Dating.

He hadn't even realized when it changed from "talking" to "we." But as he saw her wipe non-existent crumbs from her chin, still in his oversized hoodie, he couldn't help but think he might be okay with the idea.

Under the Same Roof

Later in the night, after another round of plantain and after a surprisingly good attempt at a zobo drink she made from dried hibiscus flowers, they were seated on the couch. Vivian had removed her bunny slippers and tucked up her feet while browsing Netflix.

Chuka leaned back. You didn't answer my question in that way.

"What question?"

"Why say you were, 'coming back' to my house like you live here?"

Vivian smirked. "Cos I planned to move in slowly, one meal at a time.

He chuckled. "You're mad."

Maybe 'Madly in love,' she replied with a grin.

He stared at her, mock-serious. "You better not poison me."

"Why would I poison you, if I didn't want to use premium amala on you? I'd just prepare you Jollof rice with raisins".

They guffawed so loudly the neighbors might have heard.

Labels and Leftovers

Within the following few weeks, the relationship developed in unexpected ways.

Vivian continued her chef experiments. Chuka began giving ratings on her dishes from "Mmm" to "Help." Praising her, she improved every meal and learned to cook hot egusi, non-burning jollof rice, and a great seafood okra.

They fell into a rhythm. Chuka started to enjoy coming home to find out someone had prepared a surprise for him. Vivian never mentioned officially moving in, but one day, he realized she had her toothbrush, a shelf in his bathroom, and a place in his wardrobe. It was done.

But they never used to have "the talk."

It was only until one afternoon that Vivian, standing elbow-deep in flour while preparing a meat pie recipe for the day, added casually, "My mom asked if we're serious."

Chuka lifted his head from the laptop. "And what did you say?"

"That you're my man. And you like gray cannonballs."

He blinked. "I'm your man?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you receive the memo when I entered your house without knocking?"

He grinned. "Guess I did."

Home Where the Food Church.

One evening, following a very long day at the office, Chuka returned tired. Vivian served ofada rice in pepper sauce. He ate it and slept on the couch.

When he woke, she had covered him with a blanket. A handwritten note on the table: I'll be a famous chef someday. And you'll be the guy who practiced on. Thanks for allowing me to burn only half your taste buds.

He laughed, heart warm.

It wasn't perfect.

There were burnt dishes, little quarreling over dirty dishes, and one serious close call when she tried to fry doughnuts deep and almost tripped the fire alarm.

There was laughter, love, and something that wasn't just made up.

Sometimes, it begins with a text.

Sometimes, with a poor timing of a house visit.

And sometimes… with a plate of amala that is gray.

But in some way, when Chuka saw the future, he envisioned plantain, stew, and a woman who called him "babe" as if it were a magic spell.

He texted her over the couch:

"I'm coming back to you."