“Good morning, Gogo,” I say, greeting her first. “Good morning, Naledi.”
They turn together, their smiles warm. “Sawubona, ntanami,” Gogo says. “I hope you woke with an appetite.”
“I did, Gogo.” Then I smile at DK. “Good morning, Dakarai.”
“Good morning, Rayne.” He plays along, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well. And you?”
“Never better.”
We grin ridiculously in love with each other before I ask, “What can I help with?”
That’s all the invitation Gogo needs. She points me toward the flour. I rely on the structure of a recipe and the tools that ensure a meal turns out correctly, but there are no cookbooks or measuring cups in Gogo’s kitchen. According to her, the ancestors guide the eye and the hand. I follow her instructions, working the dough until she declares it ready to shape into soft bread dumplings and lower them into a giant aluminum pot, where the idombolo will steam over a savory stew.
That’s the only nod to traditional comfort food this morning.
Sharing the stovetop, is bacon sizzling in a skillet next to a pan of sunny-side up eggs. Gogo flips the crispy strips with a dramatic cluck of her tongue.
“Ntanami, my ancestors would stage an uprising if they saw me frying these thin slices of meat.” She shakes her head. “America has corrupted my tongue.” But the laugh lines deepening around her eyes say she’s adapted quite well as she transfers the bacon onto paper towels.
Angelo joins us at the table once breakfast is ready, carrying in the scent of fresh-cut grass. Neo isn’t expected to pop in anytime soon after clubbing all night.
Later, when the kitchen is cleaned, Gogo gives me a full tour of her garden, teaching me about herbs and medicinal plants between passionate complaints about the neighborhood squirrels.
By late morning, she and Naledi leave for church, looking stunning in brightShweshwefabrics and elegant headwraps. Angelo decides the loose patio step finally needs repairing and ropes DK into helping him. I suspect it’s partly a real project and partly an excuse to spend extra time with his son before we head back to Bayside. The family agreed not to talk about his collapse anymore, but the memory of almost losing him will never disappear.
I use the quiet to go upstairs, pack my things, and check my phone. I’ve kept it off since yesterday evening. The lock screen lights up with several missed texts from Anika, asking me to call her.
The warmth inside me cools instantly. I tap her name, and she answers on the first ring.
“I just saw your messages,” I say, bracing myself. “What’s going on?”
“Some online threads I’ve been monitoring.”
“What kind of threads?”
“Stuff implying you’re not who you say you are. That there’s another side to you that the public doesn’t see. They’re framing your community-focused image as performative, attention-seeking, and power-hungry. Standard smear garbage.”
My stomach drops anyway. “Okay… wow.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t give it energy,” she says, her voice remaining tightly professional. “But it’s intentional and persistent. Probably Diablo supporters or somethingopposition-adjacent, trying to seed a narrative before the debate. I figured it was better you heard it from me before stumbling across it yourself.”
“I appreciate that, Anika.”
An awkward pause stretches between us. Then I hear her heavy exhale. “Listen, I’m not going to pretend I’m suddenly on board with you risking everything we’ve worked for. But…” Her tone loses its distant chill. “After sitting with it, I realized you’ve never done anything reckless in the twenty years I’ve known you.”
“I wouldn’t just jump into this relationship without thinking it through.”
“I get that.” Then she adds on a dry note. “The Joe’s Pharmacy thing makes a whole lot more sense now. The man is obviously down bad for you. I’d be happier than a pig in shit that you found your person—someone who treats you right—but he works for the other side, so that’s messing with my joy.”
“I understand the conflict,” I say. “It tore at me until I got to know him beyond the attraction. He’s a good man, Anika. He holds me down and lifts me up. He’s come to mean so much to me. But so does my campaign. I’m no less committed to my vision and the people of Bayside.”
“I know.”
“So you’re staying?”
“We’ve been planning your political takeover since eighth grade, Ray.” I can hear her grin now. “One messy choice isn’t getting rid of me. But, girl, if this blows up in our faces, I reserve the right to strangle you personally.”
