Chapter 15: Sunday Rice & Warnings
The aroma of Sunday jollof rice filled the small Surulere bungalow like a warm embrace. It was 1:15 p.m., the kind of Lagos afternoon where the sun pressed down on zinc roofs and the air tasted of pepper and palm oil. Imani stood at the stove in an old Ankara wrapper tied over her tank top, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the pot with the same steady rhythm Aunty Rose had taught her since she was ten. The rice was perfect—tomatoes blistered just right, the grains separate but soaked in flavour, dotted with chunks of goat meat that had been simmering since dawn. Becky had already set the plastic table outside under the mango tree, plates stacked neatly, cold bottles of Fanta sweating in the shade.
It was their ritual. Every Sunday, no matter how broke the week had been, no matter how many bills waited like vultures, they made jollof. Today it felt heavier. The blogs were still exploding; Imani's phone had been on silent since Friday, but the notifications piled up in her mind like unread messages from hell.
Aunty Rose shuffled out from the kitchen doorway, her wrapper knotted tight, grey hairs peeking from under her gele. She was sixty-two, spine bent from years of hawking akara on the roadside before she took in her sister's orphaned daughters, but her eyes were sharp as ever.
"Sit down, Imani," she said, voice low and serious, the kind that brooked no argument. "Before you burn that rice with your worrying."
Imani turned off the gas and joined the table. Becky tall and graceful in a simple church dress she'd ironed herself—bounced into her seat, phone already in hand. Kings arrived five minutes later, sliding onto the bench with a grin, carrying a small cooler of chilled drinks he'd bought from the corner kiosk. He wore a faded Chelsea jersey and shorts, his braids fresh from yesterday's twist-out, looking every bit the protective big-brother energy he always brought to these meals even though he wasn't blood.
They ate in silence at first—the rice steaming, the goat meat falling apart, the plantain fried crisp on the side. But Aunty Rose never let silence linger when trouble brewed.
"Child," she began, pointing her spoon at Imani like a prophet, "I saw those blogs. The ones calling you gold-digger, street urchin, all those dirty names. That Anderson boy… rich men like him? They don't marry girls from Surulere. They play with them. Use them for spice, then go back to their own kind. Ivy girl or whatever her name is. Stay away. Finish your work, collect your salary, come home. That elevator thing? Delete it from your head. Rich men are like fire—beautiful from afar, but they burn everything close."
Imani's fork paused mid-air. The warning landed heavy, because part of her had been whispering the same thing all weekend. The rose in her drawer at work. The almost-kiss that still made her lips tingle when she remembered it. Damian's voice cracking when he said he was trying not to want her. Aunty Rose wasn't wrong. But the words still stung.
Kings leaned forward, defending instantly, the way he always did. "Aunty, with all due respect, not every rich man is a devil. Damian snapped at the whole office Friday—made Sarian and Lola delete those fake screenshots. He protected her. That's not playing. That's… something real. I've been arguing with trolls online all weekend, and even I can see the man is fighting battles bigger than us. Imani isn't some naïve small girl. She's handling it like a queen. Don't scare her into hiding."
Aunty Rose sucked her teeth but softened a fraction. "Kings, you dey defend fire with petrol. But fine. Just watch her back."
Becky, who had been quiet, suddenly lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Maya was so nice to me, Manny. The sleepover happened—thank you for letting me go after all the drama. Her room has this huge bed and fairy lights, and we danced to Burna Boy till 3 a.m. Her friends tried to be funny at first, calling my dress 'cute for Surulere,' but Maya shut them down. She even helped me practise my scholarship essay answers again. She said my ideas were brilliant and that I deserve every scholarship that's coming. She's not like the others—the bougie ones who treat people like dirt. She's real. I wish I could see her again soon."
Imani smiled despite the ache in her chest. Becky—eighteen, fresh out of secondary school, JAMB written and results pending, waiting on scholarships to study Mass Communication at UNILAG or maybe abroad if the stars aligned. She respected Imani fiercely, never argued when big-sister rules came down, even when it hurt. The sleepover had been allowed after Damian's snapped command Friday evening; Imani had texted Maya an apology and a quiet yes, and the girls had bonded harder than expected. But the blogs had still raged all weekend.
"Eat your rice, smallie," Imani said gently, ruffling Becky's braids. "We're going to see Mummy after this. She's been asking for you in her messages."
Becky nodded, eyes solemn. Their mother—paralysed from a car accident Ten years ago—lay in the public hospital in Ikeja, tubes and monitors her constant companions. Every Sunday they visited, carrying small gifts: fresh fruit, a new wrapper, stories from home. Today the weight felt heavier. Imani wondered if the blogs had reached the nurses' station yet.
After lunch, they packed the leftovers, hailed a danfo, and headed to the hospital. The ride was quiet, Kings holding Imani's hand the whole way, whispering, "You're stronger than all of them combined, babe." Becky scrolled through old photos of her and Maya from the sleepover, smiling softly. At the hospital, their mother's face lit up weakly when she saw them—whispers of "My girls" and "Tell me everything." Imani held her hand, throat tight, and promised the storm would pass.
Meanwhile, on Banana Island, the Anderson family lunch was anything but warm rice and easy laughter.
The long marble dining table overlooking the lagoon groaned under silver platters: pounded yam, egusi soup thick with spinach and stockfish, grilled croaker fish, and bottles of chilled wine that cost more than Imani's monthly salary. Palm fronds swayed outside the floor-to-ceiling windows; a private chef hovered discreetly. This was Sunday tradition—Jude Anderson insisted on it, no matter how busy the oil empire became.
Mr. Jude Anderson sat at the head—seventy-one, silver-haired, broad-shouldered, the kind of oil tycoon mogul who had built an empire from nothing but still greeted his drivers by name. He respected people beyond wealth; he'd once stopped a board meeting to listen to a cleaner's suggestion about waste management and implemented it. Wise eyes behind thin glasses, voice calm as still water.
Opposite him, Mrs. Temi Anderson—his wife of forty-three years—picked at her food like it offended her. Slim, perfectly coiffed in a silk kaftan, diamonds flashing at her throat. She loved power the way others loved air and found poor people disgusting, a stain on the family legacy she had married into. "The help" was her favourite phrase, spat like poison.
Maya sat at the far end, arms crossed, eyes glued to her phone, still not speaking to Damian. He had apologised twice—once with her favourite red velvet cake from the French patisserie in VI, once with a new limited-edition headphone set. She had accepted the gifts in silence, then said flatly, "I'm not talking to you until Becky can come over without her sister crying because of your mess." The silence hurt more than any shout.
Jude cleared his throat, setting down his fork. "Damian. The blogs. That girl—Imani. The elevator. The rose. The screenshots. Tell me it's not true. Or if it is, tell me you're handling it like a man, not a boy caught with his trousers down."
Damian's jaw tightened. The denial monologue roared louder than the waves outside.
It's just protectiveness. Nothing more. She's my PA. Excellent at her job. The blogs are attacking the company image—that's why I snapped at staff. The way her wrist felt under my thumb? Adrenaline. The almost-kiss? A lapse. The white rose? Guilt for hurting her. Nothing more. I don't lie awake thinking about her braids against my shirt. I don't replay her whisper "It hurts" in my head like a song on repeat. I don't feel my chest cave every time she walks past my door without looking up. It's protectiveness. My father taught me to shield what's mine. That's all. Feelings? Weakness. Feelings destroyed men like my father when he let emotion cloud deals. Ivy is safe—predictable power. Imani is… dangerous. She makes me feel alive in a way that terrifies me. But I will not fall. I will not. Protectiveness. Nothing more.
He kept his voice even. "It's being handled, Dad. The fake screenshots are deleted. Staff reprimanded. The company image is intact."
Temi snorted, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Intact? The entire Lagos elite is laughing. 'Prince & Pauper'? Disgusting. That girl is from Surulere—probably still takes okada. She's after your money, Damian. End it. Marry Ivy. She's been in love with you since you were children chasing each other at the polo club. Her father's refinery merges perfectly with ours. Power. Legacy. Not some… street girl with braids and dreams above her station."
Jude shot his wife a warning look. "Temi. People are people. Wealth doesn't make a heart. I've seen poor men with more honour than billionaires. If Damian feels something real—"
"He feels nothing," Temi cut in sharply. "It's a phase. Ivy is waiting. She's obsessed—in the best way. She would do anything for this family. Anything. She told me herself last week."
Damian's stomach turned. Ivy. Childhood playmate turned predator. She had been obsessed since they were six—stealing his toys, then later his attention, willing to lie, scheme, even destroy rivals. The rumours whispered she'd once paid off a girl who got too close. He knew she would kill for him if it came to it. The thought chilled him.
Maya finally spoke, voice cold. "Ivy is a snake. Becky is real. And because of your drama, I lost the first real friend I've had in years. I'm still not talking to you, Damian."
The table fell silent. Jude sighed, offering gentle marriage advice in his deep baritone. "Son, choose with your soul, not your boardroom. Power fades. A good woman? She stays. If this Imani makes you question everything… maybe that's the point."
Temi rolled her eyes. "Nonsense. Ivy. Tonight. Dinner. I've already invited her."
Damian stood abruptly, appetite gone. He walked to the balcony, phone in hand, needing air.
That was when he saw it.
Imani's Instagram story—posted twenty minutes ago. A family photo: Imani smiling tiredly but beautifully, braids loose, arm around Becky who beamed in her church dress. Aunty Rose in the middle, proud and fierce. Kings making a silly face behind them. The caption: "Sunday rice & love. Hospital run with Mummy after. Grateful for my village ❤️ #FamilyFirst"
He stared too long. Minutes. The lagoon blurred. Her smile hit him like a punch—soft, resilient, the same one she'd given him before he yanked away from the almost-kiss. The denial monologue screamed louder:
It's just protectiveness. Nothing more. But why does seeing her with her family make my chest ache? Why do I want to drive to Surulere right now, sit at that plastic table, eat their jollof, meet her mother? Why does the thought of Ivy at dinner tonight make me want to run? This isn't real. It can't be. She's my employee. The blogs would destroy her. My mother would destroy her. I will not drag her into this. Protectiveness. That's all. Nothing more.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He almost liked it. Almost DM'd her. Almost told her the truth screaming inside him.
Instead he closed the app.
But the rubber band—stretched across the city between Surulere and Banana Island—vibrated harder than ever.
At 4:37 p.m., while Imani sat beside her mother's hospital bed reading her a Bible verse, her phone buzzed with a new notification.
Ivy had just posted a new Instagram story.
A photo of her and Damian from years ago—children laughing at a polo match—now side-by-side with a fresh shot of her in a red dress at the Anderson dinner table tonight, caption:
"Some childhood dreams come true. Dinner with the Andersons. Legacy loading. 💍 #FutureMrsAnderson"
Tagged Damian.
And just like that, the slow burn ignited into something that felt dangerously close to breaking.