We enter the kitchen, and the scents of onions and spices wrap around us. Luna takes it all in—the simmering pots, the plants lining the windowsill, my mom at the stove. Her hair is in passion twists. She’s wearing a cotton shirt dress with the sleeves rolled past her elbows, and a beaded Zulu necklace sitting at her throat like a choker.
“Hello, Rayne,” my mother beams. “You’re even lovelier in person.”
Luna smiles, warm and just a little shy, as she hands me the gift box and one of the bouquets to hold while she steps forward.
“Hello, Mrs. Ramos?—”
“Please call me Naledi.”
“Naledi,” Luna says. “These are for you. Thank you for having me.”
She offers the bouquet of white lilies, elegant and understated, exactly right for my mother.
“They’re beautiful,” Mom says, bringing them to her nose. “Thank you, Rayne.”
Gogo appears behind us like she materialized straight out of kitchen smoke, making an entrance, of course. Her towering dhukuis perfectly wrapped on her head, and her starched apron is tied over her traditional Shweshwe dress, the geometric patterns swishing against her ankles as she moves.
Luna’s eyes round—equal parts intimidated and awed—before she pulls from the customs she’s been grilling me about all week. She bows her head slightly, cupping her hands together. “Sawubona, Gogo.”
Gogo nods once. “Yebo.” No smile yet. She’s still assessing.
Luna takes the second bouquet from me—sunflowers tied with a yellow ribbon—and presents them. “Happy birthday, Gogo. Thank you for letting me share your celebration.”
Gogo accepts the flowers, examining them like she’s evaluating Luna’s soul through her floral choice. “Hmmm. Good. At least you did not bring me funeral flowers.”
“Ma,” my mother warns.
Gogo sucks her teeth with a sharp click. “Let me see the girl.” She sets the bouquet down and takes Luna’s face gently between both hands, studying her like rare art. “Pretty. Honest eyes. Nice teeth. Hips for childbearing.”
I choke on absolutely nothing. “Gogo!”
She ignores me, unbothered. “So far, so good.”
Luna, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch. “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I’m glad I passed the initial inspection.”
“Inspection is ongoing,” Gogo replies. “Do you cook?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Better.”
Luna’s laugh rings out, easy and light. She takes the small, gold-wrapped box from me, and offers it to Gogo with both hands—her left hand lightly supporting her own right forearm—a show of deep respect that elicits an impressed smile from my mother. “Please accept this,” Luna says. “And wear it well.”
Gogo takes the box with both hands and tears the paper away. Inside is a fold of rich, African silk—royal blue and gold swirling together in a diamond pattern that symbolizes family. Gogo’s rough, lined fingers trace the edge of the fabric.
“Rayne,” my mother murmurs, leaning closer. “That is stunning.”
“It is,” Gogo agrees, her voice softer now. She lifts the fabric toward the kitchen light. “Ngiyabonga kakhulu, mtanami,” she says, thanking Rayne. “You have an eye for quality.”
“Only the best for the birthday queen,” Luna replies. Watching her, I see what I already know that Luna would lead Bayside with that same authenticity and down-to-earth grace shown in everything she does.
Gogo nods once and folds the silk with meticulous care, pressing it flat with her palm before she looks up at Rayne. A first smile. “I will not ruin such a piece with kitchen grease. But when we eat, I will wear this dhuku like a crown.”
She turns to me with a flick of her wrist. “Take Rayne to meet your father. Then we’ll see how well she copes in the kitchen.”
