fill with air. The light switches back on.
âSheâs not done it yet!â shrieks Mum giggly/angrily.
âTurn the lights back off!â commands Sandi.
Itâs hard to hold her breath. Dad is by the door, next to him a woman in a severe blue-and-black head tie. Tie-dyed? Theyâre talking. He looks strained. Angry evenâhis face as white as a sheet. She doesnât recognize the woman. She wants to exhale now; she canât hold her breath like she used to when she was a kid.
She blows out the candles, finally. Clapping. A loud cheer erupts.
Sheâs staring at the woman. The woman stares back. Sheâs a stranger. Why is she here? She wasnât invited. Who is she? Why has she come? The questions float around her annoyingly. No answersâbut the strangest thing is, even though she doesnât recognize her, Lara Reid is consumed by a strong, strong feeling, almost a certainty, that she has known this woman her entire life.
Chapter 3
Yomi
1971
T hirty-nine years earlier and approximately thirty-one hundred miles away in a small area of Lagos, Nigeria, an eighteen-year-old girl with a gap in her teeth and plaits as thick as baby bananas sat daintily on one of six cracked sandy steps outside her home.
Yomi Komolafe was pleased the raining season had finally ended, as the soil would feel less slippery against her bare feet when she ran across it to fulfill her errands for the day. Ola, the familyâs house girl, had been sent to market earlier, but in her haste had forgotten to buy enough ingredients for the huge pot of soup Mama planned to cook for the important and distinguished visitors, which included Chief Ogunlade, due to arrive that evening. As expected, Yomi was ordered to collect those extra ingredients from the overly expensive but very local trader, Mrs. Apampa, across the street.
Yomi was used to and accepting of her role in the house. As the oldest of six children and the only girl, her place had been rigidly defined from birth. Like her male siblings, she was expected to help around the house with washing and cleaning, but the cooking was what clearly set her apart from her brothers. Regularly assisting Mama and Ola in the kitchen gave her a distinction from her brothers, which she enjoyed, as it allowed her an identity in the large brood. She was already confident that her soup tasted sweeter than Olaâs, due to years of practice and Mama schooling her well on the basics: how to grind the pepper to the required texture; how to calculate the correct ratio of peppers to tomatoes; how to determine how soft the meat should be.
Yomi may have learned the art of soup making, but her confidence ended the moment a lid was firmly placed on the pan of pungent, bubbling ingredients. She also understood why sheâd never be as beautiful as Mama, who boasted skin as smooth as that of an infant, a perfectly rounded body, and a sophistication Yomi could only imitate in her dreams.
Perhaps the only other arena sheâd ever excelled in was English class at school. She daydreamed often about one day climbing into one of those planes sheâd seen flying high above the house and being whisked away to that beautiful land named England. Huge castles and Big Ben as a backdrop as she confidently conversed with distinguished people such as Mr. Darcy and Emma Woodhouse. Perhaps greeting the Queen and her husband (a mere prince; Yomi often wondered why he was not a king!) on the way to Hampstead Heath where she would consume cucumber sandwiches and sip tea from a rose-decorated china cup.
That would all happen one day, but for now Yomiâs mind remained solely transfixed on selecting the best peppers for Mamaâs soup and if she ran into him on the way ⦠then that would, of course, be an unexpected bonus to her day.
Mama appeared in the doorway before Yomi set off. âI have decided we will need more things,â said Mama, a light green boubou covering her
âSheâs not done it yet!â shrieks Mum giggly/angrily.
âTurn the lights back off!â commands Sandi.
Itâs hard to hold her breath. Dad is by the door, next to him a woman in a severe blue-and-black head tie. Tie-dyed? Theyâre talking. He looks strained. Angry evenâhis face as white as a sheet. She doesnât recognize the woman. She wants to exhale now; she canât hold her breath like she used to when she was a kid.
She blows out the candles, finally. Clapping. A loud cheer erupts.
Sheâs staring at the woman. The woman stares back. Sheâs a stranger. Why is she here? She wasnât invited. Who is she? Why has she come? The questions float around her annoyingly. No answersâbut the strangest thing is, even though she doesnât recognize her, Lara Reid is consumed by a strong, strong feeling, almost a certainty, that she has known this woman her entire life.
Chapter 3
Yomi
1971
T hirty-nine years earlier and approximately thirty-one hundred miles away in a small area of Lagos, Nigeria, an eighteen-year-old girl with a gap in her teeth and plaits as thick as baby bananas sat daintily on one of six cracked sandy steps outside her home.
Yomi Komolafe was pleased the raining season had finally ended, as the soil would feel less slippery against her bare feet when she ran across it to fulfill her errands for the day. Ola, the familyâs house girl, had been sent to market earlier, but in her haste had forgotten to buy enough ingredients for the huge pot of soup Mama planned to cook for the important and distinguished visitors, which included Chief Ogunlade, due to arrive that evening. As expected, Yomi was ordered to collect those extra ingredients from the overly expensive but very local trader, Mrs. Apampa, across the street.
Yomi was used to and accepting of her role in the house. As the oldest of six children and the only girl, her place had been rigidly defined from birth. Like her male siblings, she was expected to help around the house with washing and cleaning, but the cooking was what clearly set her apart from her brothers. Regularly assisting Mama and Ola in the kitchen gave her a distinction from her brothers, which she enjoyed, as it allowed her an identity in the large brood. She was already confident that her soup tasted sweeter than Olaâs, due to years of practice and Mama schooling her well on the basics: how to grind the pepper to the required texture; how to calculate the correct ratio of peppers to tomatoes; how to determine how soft the meat should be.
Yomi may have learned the art of soup making, but her confidence ended the moment a lid was firmly placed on the pan of pungent, bubbling ingredients. She also understood why sheâd never be as beautiful as Mama, who boasted skin as smooth as that of an infant, a perfectly rounded body, and a sophistication Yomi could only imitate in her dreams.
Perhaps the only other arena sheâd ever excelled in was English class at school. She daydreamed often about one day climbing into one of those planes sheâd seen flying high above the house and being whisked away to that beautiful land named England. Huge castles and Big Ben as a backdrop as she confidently conversed with distinguished people such as Mr. Darcy and Emma Woodhouse. Perhaps greeting the Queen and her husband (a mere prince; Yomi often wondered why he was not a king!) on the way to Hampstead Heath where she would consume cucumber sandwiches and sip tea from a rose-decorated china cup.
That would all happen one day, but for now Yomiâs mind remained solely transfixed on selecting the best peppers for Mamaâs soup and if she ran into him on the way ⦠then that would, of course, be an unexpected bonus to her day.
Mama appeared in the doorway before Yomi set off. âI have decided we will need more things,â said Mama, a light green boubou covering her
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