“I’ll WHAT?”
Ejiro laughed so hard he snorted. He finished up his slice and swiped another one, dodging out of the way before Obiora could smack him with the spatula in reprimand.
“Thanks for the toast,” he said, waving.
“The second one isn’t free. You owe me.”
“Ahn ahn, Obiora, seriously? That’s so petty.”
“Petty is the hand that feeds.”
“Petty is the hand that WHAT?”
Obiora choked on air, and Ejiro laughed, feeling lighter than air.
“Hey!” Obiora called before he could leave.
Ejiro paused, a smile still on his lips. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad your date went well.” Obiora smiled.
“Oh.” Ejiro felt flustered. “Um. Thank you. You need to step up your game, you know,” he said to get the attention off him. “You can’t just coast along the competition with your charm and good looks alone; soon enough, Sophia’s going to get bored.”
“You think I’m charming and good looking?” Obiora leered.
Ejiro blushed furiously. “Goodbye.”
Obiora’s laughter echoed behind him as he left the kitchen.
Most of the bachelors seemed to be in the pool area—it looked like they were barbecuing—but Ejiro managed to go unseen as he headed straight for the nook on the veranda. He fell onto the chair with a happy sigh, finishing up his stolen slice of toast with a fullness in stomach, and in his heart. He licked his fingers clean, and then flipped open his sketchbook, his fingers itching to draw; his thoughts revolved around the crinkle in Sophia’s eyes when she laughed, and the dimple in Obiora’s cheek when he smirked.
Yeah, today was a really good day.
OBIORA WAS BEGINNING TO REALISE that when he’d made the decision to befriend Ejiro, he might’ve made a grave mistake. At first, Ejiro was still shy and didn’t seem to believe that Obiora was serious, so Obiora had taken it upon himself to prove that he was.
He’d done that by dragging Ejiro out of his room the day after their heart to heart, pulling him to the kitchen with a challenging grin. Ejiro had been reserved, if a little wary, but Obiora paid it no mind.
“So, you’re a chef.”
Ejiro’s eyes had narrowed. “Assistant chef,” he’d argued weakly. Then he’d glanced at the food items Obiora had meticulously arranged on the kitchen counter, and raised both eyebrows. “Jollof rice?”
“As a fellow Nigerian, I believe Jollof is the best way to test if a chef actually has any cooking skills to speak of.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing this.” Ejiro had turned to leave.
“Oh, yes you are.” Obiora had dragged him back by the arm, grabbing an apron and artfully tying it around his hips before he could blink.
Ejiro had stood there and stared, looking a little dazed, but Obiora had spotted amusement dancing in his eyes, in the slight quirk of his lips.
Ejiro let out a disbelieving laugh, and Obiora could see the moment he consciously chose not to go back to his room to “draw”, which, while he did draw, Obiora had noticed Ejiro had begun using “drawing” as an excuse not to socialise. Yeah, not on his watch.
“Fine, then.” Ejiro made a show of retying the apron around his hips. “Just watch. I’m going to have you singing Iya Basira by the time I’m done.”
It took a moment for Obiora to remember the song, then he burst out laughing. It was an old classic by Style Plus, one of the most successful bands to come out of Nigeria, and was about a woman who ran a roadside restaurant; her food was apparently so good, it had all the men literally enchanted and unable to consume the food of anyone else but hers.
Ejiro glanced at him, looking terribly pleased. Obiora’s heart skipped a beat.
“That song is so old,” Obiora said, shaking his head.
