It was a terribly hot September. Though it drizzled now and then, the thick stagnant air of summer refused to give way to the tranquility of autumn. Stubborn tourists trotted the streets in shorts and sleeveless tops, undeterred while the Locals wandered about, glancing at the lifeless grey skies with frustration and concern.
That afternoon, nothing deserved pleasantry. The outdoor tent of Sobiro restaurant was packed with a cluster of sweaty impatient customers. Habibat took their orders with practiced grace, resisting the urge to blow herself with her order pad. She considered dashing to the toilet to take off her bra for a moment of sanity but she worried about her breasts slumping and dangling under her dress as she hurried about.In the end, she decided against it.
As she recommended carbonara over cacio e pepe with guanciale to an American customer, heat brewed relentlessly and sweat trickled down her thighs. She could have walked away after her first unsuccessful attempt with the man. But such shabbiness did not bring her this far from Lagos to Milan. So despite the assault of his stale coffee breath on her senses, she lowered herself to the menu in his front to carefully explain both meals. When she caught the kind smile behind his partner’s eyes, she was glad she had made the effort.
“Where are you from?” the American man asked abruptly, scrolling through his phone.
“Nigeria,” she replied eagerly.
“You grew up here then?”
“Oh, I moved here three years ago.”
“Amazing.” His wife interjected with a far gracious smile.
“So, what do you know?” He asked flatly.
“Sorry?” Habibat uttered, startled.
His partner’s smile faded to a confused glare. She quickly lowered her head to smoothen invisible creases on her red floral print dress. Her gaze drifted across the adjacent stores that led to Duomo—Sephora, Inter Milan, McDonald’s—lingering there with a stubborn determination to disregard the scene unfolding before her. Habibat tried to understand what had gone wrong. The man himself could have been casually addressing a board of directors for the detached precision in his tone.
“Let me get this straight. You’re new here–” he resumed.
“Honey please.” his wife interjected gently.
He ignored her, continuing in his measured relaxed tone, “…And this is my fourth time in Milan. My seventh in Italy. You don’t think I should know cacio e pepe is just carbonara without pork and eggs?”
“Steve—” his wife cut in sharply.
But he had returned to his phone, squinting at his screen
as though nothing significant had occurred.
“My apologies,” Habibat muttered.
“Darling, cacio e pepe with guanciale will do just fine. Carbonara for me,” his partner whispered to Habibat, her voice soft and apologetic.
Habibat nodded and walked off. Her thoughts swirled and her head felt unbearably light. For the first time all afternoon, she was too numb to notice the pressing heat that pushed against her as she stepped into the kitchen.
Hours later, after taking several other orders with a smile too generous to be genuine, on aching bones and sore feet, she sat behind the kitchen, smoking her fourth cigarette, and feeling worried sick about the Man’s looming review. Marco, the head supervisor, never joked about an American’s review. She’d seen it cost a few people their jobs and couldn’t afford to be next. As she observed the deserted quiet street, the smell of ragu and broth wafted through the windows but to her, it smelled like smoked Panla fish and Ponmo stew. Right then, she closed her eyes and thought of home.
Unlike here, the pitch-dark days back home demanded wakefulness that was charged with a stubborn vigilance that hovered over you.
It began in Bauchi, a few days after the news about Iya Agba. That evening, the rain came like an angry flood, slashing through mango trees and pulling frangipanis down onto the expressway. When the rain finally stopped, the cloud remained dark and threatening.
It was Habibat’s turn to cook in the corper’s lodge that day. After she had just finished buying ingredients for potato porridge at Yelwa market, she sat on the back of a bike, clutching her bag—heavy with potatoes, tomatoes, ugu leaves, and stock fish—between her legs. The rider muttered a curse under his breath each time he swerved to avoid the little potholes on the untarred slippery road. Habibat ignored him and focused on making out words on billboards and plastered posters across the roadside buildings, anything to keep her mind from drifting to Iya Agba.
All of a sudden, the rider hit a deep pothole and everything came to a jarring halt. For a fleeting second, Habibat felt herself in the air, weightless and roaming, before crashing hard into the cement pavement outside a provisions store. Pain shot through her back, along her spine, and settled in her skull. Somewhere in the haze, she thought she heard Iya Agba call her pet-name softly, “Kenkele.”
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, with onlookers ripping sachets of pure water over her head. A young girl appeared beside her clutching her spilled groceries in a fresh nylon. Without a word, Habibat took the bag with trembling fingers and rose to her feet. Someone reached out to steady her but she shrugged the hand off and started walking off. Voices hummed around, mud squelched under her feet, and passers-by whispered, but Habibat fastened her gaze ahead and walked till she reached the youth corper’s lodge. All the while smiling as the voice repeated, “Kenkele.”
She was still smiling when she started cooking. The other Youth Corps members were at Bible study and the lodge was empty. The muddy backyard was littered with rumpled wraps of biscuits, sugar, and spaghetti tossed about from the wind earlier that day. Habibat kept dousing the wet logs of firewood with kerosene but it wouldn’t catch fire. By the time the struggling flame finally caught on, the day had lost its light. Habibat secured her android phone’s flashlight to her head with a tied scarf and continued cooking in the flickering light.
Her movements were mechanical, as though it were all a dream. She didn’t realize when her hands reached for the wrong nylon. She watched as black streaks of leftover charcoal simmered over the bubbling potato porridge in place of crayfish. Still, Habibat smiled.
For weeks, no one believed it was an accident. Habibat didn’t bother to explain further. Even though she paid the same monthly fees for food and upkeep in the lodge, they punished her with meager portions of food and wrote her name three times on the cleaning roster each week. Once one of them approached her in their shared room and said to her, “You know you can take a break and go back home. Just explain to the L.G.I. He would understand.” She barely glanced at the girl. Habibat simply moved about as though it were only her and Iya Agba in the entire world, smiling.
But charity has its limits too. They were becoming impatient with her. If she had decided to stop eating and refused to join their little chats on the verandah, that was her problem. But living in the lodge and skipping devotions and Sunday services was utterly impermissible.
Years ago, When Habibat had to scrape up some money for her JAMB form, but found herself in a fierce argument with an older relative who could have helped, Iya Agba called her to the yard and whispered to her, “One with little means of survival must be skilled at appeasing people whose simple ‘yes’ and ‘no’ can squeeze the meaning out of one’s life. Even if you have to call a cow ‘uncle’ so he can move out of your way, do it.”
Although Habibat didn’t agree with that relative, she held her head down and went over to apologize. Finally, she got the money. Then an invaluable lesson stuck: to survive as an orphan, she had to lick ass, whether she liked it or not.
But she was tired. Although she knew what was at stake—without enough money to care for her daily needs, let alone afford her apartment—all she wanted to do was go to her Place of Primary Assignment, arrange shelves till 3 pm, and return to her bunk bed for Iya Agba’s voice.
So, that faithful Sunday morning, as tambourines and drums carried praise songs to her room, Habibat studied the trail of brown cracks along the faded blue wall as she waited for Iya Agba’s, “Kenkele.”
“Sister Habibat? Is everything okay?” the lodge’s President, whom they all called Mama, called out a while later.
Habibat considered lying, but there was something about the white crust of lip-gloss clinging to the corners of her mouth, the brutal assail of her cheap lemony perfume, and the far-too-earnest concern in her voice that made the idea repulsive.
“I’m okay.”
Mama’s forehead creased further as she observed Habibat for a moment. “Look Sister Habibat, I understand. But in situations like this, drawing farther from God is not the solution.”
Habibat’s stomach churned.
“I’m okay,” Habitat responded, staring harder at the ceiling and tracing out shapes from the darkened cobwebs.
“He is close to the weary-hearted,” Mama whispered gently, pressing the back of her hand to Habibat’s forehead. “There’s a bit of temperature. Are you sure it’s not malaria?” She pressed further, desperate for a reasonable excuse.
“I’m good.”
“Just know your grandma is resting well at the blossom—”
“Honestly, fuck off.” Habibat snapped.
To this day, Habibat struggled to recollect what exactly happened next. Mama claimed she hissed and shoved her so that she hit her head on the bunk. All Habibat remembers is the sharp corner of the wall colliding with her forehead. Someone must have pushed her first. But Mama denied it. Chaos followed after the collision. Habibat remembers her teeth sinking into someone’s flesh and even as several hands pushed and pulled at her, she did not stop until the tang of blood spread over her tongue. She remembers the pulsating fear in their eyes as she staggered to her feet, how they pushed and scrambled backward as though afraid for their own lives. She remembers running out of the lodge, across the street, onto the expressway. Then she blindly walked down a busy narrow untarred street, till her Aboki customer—the one who sold her pepper at Yelwa market—spotted her and asked, “Aunty you dey live for this area?”
It was then she realized she had been walking for over one hour, sweat-soaked in her pyjamas and bathroom slippers.
When she returned to the lodge that night, fearful angry eyes and sharp whispers followed her about. She was left to sleep alone in the room she shared with five others. And for the first time, she did not hear the soft call of Iya Agba’s, “Kenkele.”
Many months after completing her youth service in Bauchi and settling into a banking job in Lagos, she began seeking ways to invoke the voice—long walks through crowded streets, running till her legs ached, even kickboxing that left her fists raw.
Still Nothing.
Desperation crept in, leading her to extremities. She started hitting her head hard on surfaces hoping the jolt would bring the voice back. One day, she hit too hard and blacked out. A close colleague who had witnessed her behavior from a distance gathered help to rush her to Aro Hospital in Yaba.
It is one thing for one or two people to believe you aren’t normal—that is their problem. But when a government agency starts to treat you the same, it starts to feel like the truth. Slowly, she started to believe it herself. Maybe she was becoming a madwoman.
When distant relatives reached out to her, she refused their gestures. They were looking to see if she could be worthy of their mercy and love. She refused to become a tolerated object of pity. Instead, she sold off everything she’d painstakingly gathered in ten months—her furniture, shoes, clothes—and boarded a plane to Milan, convincing herself it was for a fresh start in design and Fashion even though deep down, she knew she was running.
Three years after cutting off all contact and failing her final exams twice, Sobiro remained the only place that filled her with a sense of relevance. When she rose each morning, she couldn’t tell what she saw for her life soon, but she could tell how she was going to show up to work each day— with diligent and meticulous commitment. That was her new meaning in life and she took it seriously.
Later that hot September evening, when Marco hurled hurtful words about her “being careless” and “getting too comfortable,” adding that she should consider herself lucky he was in a good mood. If it ever happened again, all she had to do was save him the stress and leave completely. She left his office recalling every cadence in his tone and a part of something whole she’d gathered inside her for three years snapped and chipped off.
She walked down to the Duomo and sat on the steps, watching the scattered crowd. Tourists clutched cameras, took pictures, held hands, and kissed each other, their faces lit with awe at the cathedral towering above them. Her gaze drifted to the black men weaving through the crowd, their hands laden with souvenirs: phone chargers, Milan-branded keychains, scarves, and sorts. She studied them intently, wondering where they had come from, and what stories had brought them to this place. Their hungry eyes wandered from one potential buyer to another and she couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, felt what she felt at this moment– out of place.
“Excuse me, my sister. Please do you speak English?”
She turned to find a short stout fair man beside her, holding a tired boy of about five years old. Behind him, a tall fair pregnant woman was cradling a baby on her chest and resting her other arm on her hips for support. Behind her was an older woman, pushing a double stroller, her eyes darting between the group and the bustling crowd.
Habibat would usually say no because she’d grown intolerant to the unknown. But the day’s heaviness had beaten her guard down. She nodded in response.
“Please do you know where we can get good African food around here?” the man continued, worry etched on his face. “My wife here is sick and has been throwing up all the MacDonalds and lasagna.” The pregnant woman stared into the distance scanning the crowd with a tired resignation as though Habibat’s advice couldn’t be better than the several futile ones they’d received so far.
“Which Kind of African food?” Habibat asked.
“Anything,” the man added quickly.
“Nigerian please,” the pregnant woman retorted.
“Where would you find that one without costing an arm and a leg?” Her husband snapped back in Igbo, irritated.
“There are one or two affordable restaurants,” Habibat added, with hesitation.
Their eyes lit with joy and the man broke into a wide smile, his energy charging up the scene. “My sister, you’re Igbo?” He lowered himself and shook her shoulders with a startling familiarity.
Habibat broke into laughter. His wife smiled and settled beside Habibat on the steps. The baby let out a soft whimper and she patted her back gently, shutting her heavy eyes for a moment. The man joined them on the steps and patted his side for his boy to sit. The older woman behind them remained standing, watchful but relieved.
“No, I’m Yoruba, but I understand a little Igbo.”
“Did you grow up in the east or did your youth service there?”
“No. I was raised in Lagos, Ebute metta. My Grandma’s neighbors were mostly Igbos. So, I picked a few things,” she responded. “Did you just arrive?”
“Yes, my sister.” He ran his hand over the little boy’s back.
“And we have four more days to go,” his wife added, fixing her gaze on the sky “Chai Chisom, you do yourself this one.”
He continued in a mix of Igbo and pidgin English. “This is our first family trip. But na from airplane she don dey crave the head of fish, crave head of crocodile. I should have just waited for her to give birth. She can’t keep anything down. Imagine craving pepper soup here, where would I find such?”
Habibat looked at the woman and her baby. A little whimper rose from the double stroller. The older woman swiftly lowered herself into it and sang softly.
“They’re twins. Two girls. Grace and Gloria. I’m Emeka,” he man said, answering the questions in her eyes. “My wife is Chisom and our son…”, he snuggled the boy closer, “Chidubem. That is my wife’s mother.” He gestured to the older woman.
Habibat watched them all keenly, and a snug feeling of warmth, something maternal, stirred inside her. She felt an urgent need to care for them.
Though Habibat had never been to the Intercontinental market for her own needs, she hurried to Centrale that evening. Emeka was with her, expressing gratitude every few minutes.
“God bless you my sister, the way we could have been swindled in this Italy ehn!”
He followed each gratitude with stories of his business trips to Turkey and China, lamenting the state of the global economy. But Habibat simply nodded and smiled as she looked through the aisles. When she asked him, “Do you people prefer cowleg or catfish…or potatoes or yam in your pepper soup?”
he replied with an eager enthusiasm, “Anything, my sister. Anything. As long as there is wicked pepper inside.”
Habibat smiled with amusement and continued shopping, picking other items that might be of use to them–peak milk, Indomie noodles, basmati rice, blue band butter, sardines. Emeka went on about the state of the global economy with brief breaks in between to insist that she picked things for herself too.
There was a lightness in her steps and a bubbling delight in her belly.
Emeka teased her, “I know I’m a bit funny, but I don’t think it’s enough for your every two minutes of laughter. You know nothing is funny about what Buhari is doing to Nigeria now?”
But Habibat continued smiling widely and nodded to everything he said.
After the pepper soup meal, their Airbnb hung heavy with the strong aroma of spices, and ginger. Chisom lay on the sofa, stripped down to her bra and shorts only, watching Netflix, half-asleep. One of the twins was nestled against her breast, suckling and fighting to keep her awake. Chidubem was in the second smaller bedroom, fast asleep.
Emeka was on the balcony in his singlet, rendering a soliloquy on the poor structure of Nigerian governance. He was referencing his view: the city landscape. How the glitter of light from high-rise buildings shone against the dark of the night without a single generator sound to disrupt the night’s quiet. Grandmother sat beside him on a cane rocking chair, cradling the other twin in her lap, with a shawl covering her and the baby. Habibat stood behind them, watching them all. Feeling enveloped with this long-lost familiar feeling.
“God bless you, my daughter. Thank you,” Grandmother said with an earnest look, peering into her eyes with appreciation.
Habibat smiled shyly and looked away. Before Emeka could begin a new adoration of thanks, she announced that she was leaving and promised to return the next day after work.
She walked down to the metro, inhaling the strong scent of cow meat and pepper soup that still clung to her palm. Joy fluttered all over her insides like an intoxicating wine. She hummed a tune and swayed her head.
As she climbed into bed that night, she remembered the grandmother–her tender watchful eyes, steady and protective. Then Iya Agba’s presence crept in and lingered. She didn’t resist the memories: the rich aroma of her ponmo and panla fish stew, her sonorous Ijesha songs, the comforting smell of Aboniki balm wafting in her wardrobe, and her little brown handkerchiefs, stuffed with wads of naira notes, always safely knotted into her wrappers.
For the first time since the news of Iya Agba’s death, Habibat wept unrestrained tears that came like a flood and left her gasping for air.
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