Chapter 11:Warmth
The sun was just beginning to rise when Esi returned from the market. The compound was quieter than usual, save for the rhythmic thud of fufu being pounded in the back kitchen and the savory aroma of palm nut soup hanging thick in the air.
As she stepped closer, the scent hit her fully—rich, smoky, familiar.
For a moment, her steps slowed.
She remembered standing beside her mother in their small kitchen , hands dusted with cassava flour, laughing as they stirred soup together. Her mother used to tease her, saying her drawings would one day hang in galleries ,but for now, they'd hang on the fridge beside pepper stains and recipe notes.
"You're good my Esi," her mother had said once, brushing hair from her face. "But never forget, home is your first canvas."
The memory gripped her chest softly but deeply.
She shook herself gently and entered the kitchen.
Here is the amani(herrings)then the old maid collected it and said thank you.
Two of the house staff looked up from the pounding—one of them offered her a smile. She responded with a polite nod, holding onto the warmth of the memory before it faded into the mansion's colder walls.
Not long after, she was heading toward the hallway when Kwabena found her.
He was leaning casually against a doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"So…" he started, "how did you meet Araba? The girl you came with from the market?"
Esi didn't flinch. "I just met her there. She offered to help. That's all."
Kwabena studied her face for a long moment. "I told you before… not everyone is harmless."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if impressed.
She thought he might say more, but he only gave a small nod and walked off without another word.
Esi stood there briefly, letting the moment settle, before quietly making her way back toward the kitchen. Something about the smell of the food, the pounding of the fufu, and the soft chatter had grounded her earlier. She wanted to be there again—somewhere that reminded her of home.
As she stepped in, one of the older maids noticed her and smiled warmly, but quickly wiped her hands on her apron and approached her gently.
"Madam, you shouldn't be in here," she said softly. "Please… come and sit over there."
"I just want to help," Esi said honestly, already reaching for a bowl.
The younger maid, the one who had smiled earlier, paused her pounding and added in a quiet voice, "It's not that we don't want your help, madam… but if Mr. Kwabena comes and sees you working…"
She didn't finish her sentence, but Esi understood.
She exhaled slowly and nodded, retreating to a stool in the corner.
There, in that warm kitchen filled with smoke and spices and soft voices, she sat—half longing, half remembering. Her fingers itched to stir, to peel, to grind, to do something… but instead, she just watched.
And as the soup bubbled over the fire and the pestle hit the mortar in steady rhythm, Esi closed her eyes for a moment.
She wasn't sure what this house wanted from her yet.