Eleanor is visiting Lagos from Manhattan. She’s in my kitchen: her blonde hair waving and her straight nose frowning at the pepper paste frying in diced onions and vegetable oil.
“Amoke, where’s your cookbook? To measure the spices?”
I smile and grab a curry container beside the washed rice in a sieve.
“No cookbook is needed Ellie. Our mothers past lie in the spices. They tell us just the right amount to use.”
I add spices to the broth and stop when my mother’s ghost appears whispering, “Enough, my child.”
Eleanor says it’s the best jollof rice she’s ever tasted.