The eggs sizzle, fighting for sound space with the bubbling Tom brown porridge sharing the electric stove with them. I tilt the pan gently from one side to another to let the eggs swirl and take up the entire pan. I cover it, turning to the chopping board, the spinach and tomatoes waiting to be executed. The chopping board is one of those plastic sorts, yellow and loudly bright. Against the white tile of the kitchen cabinet, it is a welcome splodge of art, some kind of abstract expressionism.

                       I take a moment to inhale the aroma that emanates from the frying pan. Memories of my mother's freshly baked bread flood my mind which is odd as the two aromas have no connection. My heart skips a beat, there is a constriction in my chest then a sudden jolt of relief. I feel at peace. It is weird. Maybe it is the warmth that came with watching my mother cook. That warmth engulfs me wholly. Then I picture her in her apron each morning after getting us breakfast, arms outstretched, hugging my brothers and me before we left for school. Her smile...her beauty...

                        The comforting aroma from the eggs hit my nose again, pulling me out of my daze. Get it together, girl! I take another look at the contents in the small bottle housing the natural spices I had bought a week ago at the market. Then I recall. There I was, that Saturday morning, doubting the potency of the natural spices this woman at the market tried to sell to me.

                   "I know you will come back next week and give me praise. I do the mixing myself. It is an all-natural spice," her Ga, daring and glaring. In as much as she sounded very convincing, which is like a crash course you need to ace to be a market woman, I agreed to buy one bottle just to get her off my back.

                 A smile escapes my lips before I know it. Damn it. The woman was right. I agree, besides myself, as I turn the eggs, ready to place the cheese, tomatoes, and spinach in a line down the centre. I let it cook for about one minute then slide the spatula around one side at the edge to loosen it. I gently fold the stuffed egg in half. The omelette is coming together well. I think. Then my phone chimes. I guess it is a message from LinkedUp.

                "Hey, Siri?" the phone beeps, "open LinkedUp".

I use the spatula to gently transfer the omelette from the pan to the plate before turning my interest to the red and pine green interface of the LinkedUp app. My attention is summoned by the topmost message.

              Koku: I saw something that made me think of you!

I roll my eyes as my right thumb finds its way to the keypad.

              I just ate sausage. Guess what that made me think of?

I reply.

             Yes, I know. It is a lie but you can't judge me yet. It is a whole jungle out there on these online dating apps. It is either you keep up or get left behind. And I choose to keep up even if it means telling lies sometimes. Especially since my flirting game is way below zero. If I am to let you in on one secret of mine: I was never a fan of leaving your love life in the hands of some app's algorithm. Those things never made sense to me. It was either cupid did his fucking job or I die single. That was me. Besides, these apps had never been a favourable place for people with my kind of body size.

           Then my friend, Omolara, convinced me otherwise. She didn't have it easy though, I must say. She would have had better luck selling one of SIKA's makeup products to a nun. But she was relentless. She won the battle after three months of nagging. I had thrown in the towel and conceded to try, in her own words, one of the "best" dating apps she had ever used—LinkedUp.

           This is my second month on the app and it has been nothing but crap, though very addictive that you never get tired of the crap. Want my advice? Never try a dating app...die single if your love life in the real world is a mess. That is better.

My phone chimes, reminding me that I am in the middle of a conversation.

           Koku: Wow! Are you saying you thought of me? Is that to say my proposal has been accepted? 😉

         Me: Your proposal?

        Koku: Don't pretend, babe. The date...

       Me: The date? Do you mean like... we meet in person?

       Koku: Yes...since you have opted to not share your pic but prefer us to meet in person...

Right.  I drop my phone on the table in haste as if by that gesture, I am hoping for time to flip back to when he asked for my pic. I would have sent him the pic to get this lie over with. Now it is too late. Beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead. What have I gotten myself into!

         Koku: So, what do you say? Tonight?

I ignore it.

          Koku: Hello? Are you still there?

He is relentless!

The messages glare at me when I pick up the phone. I shrug, not knowing whether to say yes or no. A lot of "what ifs" race through my head.

          Ok. Location. Time?

I ask.

His reply doesn't take a second. Like he has had it typed waiting for my greenlight.

          18th Lane Restaurant & Bar, Oxford Street? 8 pm.

I smile. Smart taste. I think as I drop the phone, trying my best to stay out of my head.

         "Moment of truth," I mouth as I sit behind my breakfast in the dining room. I stare at the chunk of Tom brown porridge covered at the top with creamy milk and the omelette in front of me, trying so hard not to cuss myself for not following any of those dieting routines I searched up on Google last month.

              It is almost 8 Am and I am still stuck in traffic. To think I will be late again today gives me serious pains in my crotch. When you have a promotion you are hoping for, being late to work should be part of your not-to-dos. In a situation such as this, it is humanly not possible for me not to be anxious, feeling as if all the air around me has been sucked into a vacuum cleaner or worse. But the Uber driver is a boisterous fellow. 

          As much as I want him to shut up at some point on our trip, I am grateful that his overly dramatic way of whining about the current economic situation of the country (and other issues of interest) protects me from staying in my head too much and beating myself up for being late. Rather, I want to beat him up. Just anything to keep him mute. Haha. But I am not a violent person so I comply. Or should I say I try to keep up? I get lost at some point then I pick up or murmur: mmmm, oh yeah, mmm-hmm; to get him to think I am still following. Well, you can't blame me. The topics he brings up continue to change as fast as the speed of light. 

            We move from politics to a discussion on betrayal in love when Kwabena Kwabena's Asɔ booms through the radio.

          "Love ankasa it is some complicated thing enh," he gives his verdict. I am not interested in the topic but...

            "oh, yeah. You are lucky if you can find love in this crazy world. And when you do, there is no assurance it is even going to last. All that pain in between..."

             "Have you ever been in love, madam?" He cuts in.

              "Huh?"

               "I asked if—"

                "I heard you. I just don't think I want to answer that."

                 "I am sorry if—"

I turn my gaze outside the car, tuning his voice out. He is negotiating the curve on Ridge roundabout and the traffic is no better ahead. Cars are bumper to bumper, frustration high in the air. Each face behind a steering wheel or in the passengers' seat has a story of its own to tell. From those who, just like myself, are late for work and hoping today isn't the last day they get to be called employed to those on their own timelines but can't wait to get over with whatever it is they have to do. The hawkers are, as usual, taking advantage of the situation to sell their Iced Water, Snacks, Books, gum among others, clearly oblivious to our ordeal.

            "Madam, do you want today's edition of the newspaper? I have Ghanaian Times, The Daily Guide, Daily—"

             "I don't need some."

              I take a glimpse at my watch and it is a quarter past 8. Goodness! I scream internally just before I start a stroll through my mind, pondering on the driver's question. The questions come flooding my brain like some kind of planned invasion, barely giving me any chance to gather momentum. Have I ever been in love? Have I? Have. I? No, the question should be, has anyone ever fallen in love with me? Who will ever love me considering, you know, everything? I mean, who will...," I go round and round and round, avoiding the answers to these questions, knowing the effects such answers will have on me. Those are locked away Pandora's box of emotions I am better off not unlocking. Fuck love. Who needs love? I conclude just when the driver's voice hit my ears again.

         "Or what do you think, madam?"

           "Huh?" Is he still talking?

            "I was asking about the ongoing strike by the lecturers."

           "Oh, yeah, yeah. I think the government can do better. It is like a strike fest in this country now. Every institution, profession blah blah are going on strike now...it is pathetic", I indulge him. He gives me a toothy grin through his rear-view mirror. I force a smile. I can't get rid of the idea that he seems to be enjoying the conversation. Is he that lonely?

          "For news inside today den say NABCo people vex dey plan go do demo for the streets top, say dem no pay them demma allawa for like some months this." He switches to pidgin.

           "Oh, really?" I am genuinely surprised. One, because I am not privy to the news as I haven't had time to check the news tabloids this morning (considering I just turned down a newspaper) and two, because the government is failing all these NABCO trainees. I am genuinely surprised that it is all falling to shits. But I keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I nod along as he goes on and on about how all these are going to have some sort of effect on the outcome of the next general elections. Who cares?

       When he finally makes a stop in front of the SIKA Plaza, I heave a sigh of relief. There is no way I am riding with this driver again. I make a mental note as I get down from the car. I look ahead at the entrance of the office building. Without thinking, I touch my forehead, lower chest and both shoulders successively, making the sign of the cross. Another memory raid takes me by surprise, holding me captive. It is very vivid. It is of my mother always insisting on recitals of the Trinitarian formula.

      "In the name of the Father and of the Son of the Holy Spirit," she would say, wearing one of the widest smiles. You could see her soul through the smile. It was always how she demonstrated her faith. That woman...I should call her today...

My thoughts trail off.

The time is exactly 9 AM.

I put my thoughts together, mouth an "amen" as I stride on to my slaughter. 

GLOSSARY 

Tom Brown: This is a blend of milled roasted corn and groundnut. It's generally cooked quite thick and blended with milk and sugar to taste. It's eaten either with no accompaniment or with bread and occasionally egg.

Ga: Ga is a Kwa language spoken in Ghana, in and around the capital Accra.

"For news inside today den say NABCo people vex dey plan go do demo for the streets top, say dem no pay them dem allawa for like some months this."

Translated as:  "Even in the news today, they say NABCo beneficiaries are expected to go to the streets today in protest of what they claim is an excessive delay in receiving their monthly allowances."

Kwabena Kwabena: He is a Ghanaian musician, guitarist, and accomplished draftsman.

Asɔ: It is one of Kwabena Kwabena's hit songs which is about a lady cheating with her husband's friend. 

What do you think of this opening chapter? 

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