Seasoned by Love

I didn't cry when I took the graduation photo.

I didn't cry when the dean said my name wrong.

But I almost did when the wind flipped my cap right off and it landed in a puddle behind the campus canteen.

A perfect ending, honestly.

I stared down at the soggy black square like it was a symbol of my life: soaked, tired, and still not enough.

People around me were laughing, hugging, doing that thing where they jump and pretend life is about to start. For some of them, it really was. Parents handing over keys to new cars. Aunties booking flights to Paris for "gap months." Cousins screaming, "Chef bae!" in shiny heels they couldn't walk in.

Me?

I had two text messages. One from Mom that said:

"Proud of you, Naila. Please check the gas at home."

And another from my landlord asking when the rent was due.

Welcome to real life.

I adjusted my robe and tried to smile for the next round of forced photos with classmates I barely knew. In the group chat, I was the one who always shared recipe hacks. The one who made birthday cakes from scratch. The one who taught everyone how to pronounce coq au vin and knew the difference between couscous and quinoa.

But I wasn't the one with a scholarship to Le Cordon Bleu in Europe.

Because I didn't have money.

Because life doesn't always give second servings.

"Hey, Naila," someone called behind me. "You going to that rooftop after-party tonight? There's going to be champagne and sushi. Like, actual imported sushi."

I forced a polite smile. "Nah. Got something to cook at home."

Which was technically true. Mom's stew needed reheating. And I had to prepare meals for the neighbors again, because she promised Mrs. Daniel grilled salmon with saffron rice by Thursday. I was the one who always came through-even when we had more rice than a barn.

Sometimes I wondered what it would be like...

To cook in an open, steel-plated kitchen with chefs yelling behind me.

To be in Paris, maybe. Or Morocco. Or Seoul.

To plate something I invented. Not just what I inherited.

See, I didn't just study nutrition.

I breathed food.

French soufflés? I made them by fifteen.

Thai green curry? My personal heartbreak remedy.

Jollof rice vs. Senegalese thieboudienne? I could write a dissertation.

But no culinary school wanted a girl who couldn't pay her own knife set fees.

That's the thing about dreams.

They don't always die.

They just go quiet.

I walked across campus in silence, letting the noise fade behind me. The click of heels. The distant cheers. Balloons, confetti, promises.

None of it felt like mine.

Halfway home, I passed a bakery I used to window-shop during finals week. There was a new cake on display: mango sponge with coconut buttercream. I smiled. That had been my dream cake once, for my Twelfth birthday. I had shown Dad a photo, circled it in a magazine.

He couldn't afford it.

So we made our own version. Boxed yellow cake, whipped cream he beat with a fork, mango slices from a can. It wasn't perfect.

But it was better.

Until he went on a journey we thought would change our financial status, but the only status that was changed was my mom's status from wife to widow.

we received reports he had committed suicide, but when I became older I understood it all, when I used to think he was being quiet because of my mom's constant taunt not knowing he was depressed, the only memory I had of him was a bracelet which was engraved with the words, (No1 chef)

Since then my only goal was to fulfil his dream of becoming a professional chef.

I kept walking.

As I crossed the footbridge that led to our street, a breeze tugged at my robe again. I caught it before it could escape, gripping the fabric like I was holding the last piece of something sacred.

Home was still a few blocks away. Brick buildings. Worn fences. Laundry lines and old transistor radios buzzing outside.

When I reached our gate, I paused. My fingers hovered over the latch.

My phone buzzed again.

A photo from Mom.

She stood outside our small kitchen, apron tied around her waist, holding up a steel pot like it was a trophy.

"Dinner's ready. Come home, Chef."

That's what she called me.

Chef.

Like she believed it would be true one day.

I smiled. For real this time.

I pushed open the gate.

The scent of cooking onions and palm oil hit me like a hug. The kind of scent that clings to your shirt and tells the world where you came from.

Inside, our home looked just as it always did-too small, slightly leaning, but bursting with life.

I dropped my bags in the hallway and went straight to the kitchen.

Mom was there, stirring her famous egusi soup, humming a tune Dad used to whistle when he cooked. A tiny, off-key melody that always made me feel like things would be okay.

She looked up and beamed. "You made it."

"Barely," I said, sliding in beside her.

She handed me a wooden spoon. "Taste."

I did.

Spicy. Comforting. Home.

"You always know when it needs more crayfish," I said.

She winked. "That's why you're the Chef."

The word hit differently tonight. It didn't feel like a joke or a nickname. It felt like... hope.

We ate on the floor because our dining table wobbled too much.

We laughed over stories of my classmates.

She cried when I told her about the cap in the puddle. Then made a joke about washing it and turning it into a pot holder.

Later, while she washed up, I went into Dad's old room.

It still smelled faintly of cocoa butter and newspaper.

His apron hung behind the door, faded and thin. I ran my fingers over the fabric. The pockets still had toothpicks and a faded grocery list.

Coconut milk

Garlic

Yam

Eggs

Cardamom

He used to say cardamom was his secret ingredient-for both stew and life.

I sat on his bed and let the silence wrap around me.

"Dad," I whispered. "I did it. I finished."

There was no answer, of course.

But somehow, the silence didn't feel empty.

It felt full. Like he was there, just listening.

The moonlight poured in through the cracked curtain, casting soft shadows on the floor. My eyes landed on the box of old recipe books tucked beneath his bed. I pulled them out-pages dog-eared, covers stained with oil and memories.

One note scribbled on the inside of a French cookbook caught my eye.

"One day, my girl will make magic."

I pressed my hand to the page.

Maybe it wasn't Paris.

Maybe it wasn't a Michelin star.

But tonight, the stove was hot.

The knives were sharp.

And the hands behind the food were full of heart.

Because I believed life is just like a magic trick-you don't know what it's pulling out next.

And that was enough...

For now.