The kitchen smells like you. Smoky, spicy, unmistakably yours. I’m standing over the stove, stirring a pot of jollof rice. Too hot, too rich, just the way you always liked it. For a heartbeat, I imagine you behind me, muttering about how roughly I chopped the onions. Something about this is why no one should cook alone.

You’d say it’s because food tastes better when you talk to it, and I do. I talk to the pot as if you’re listening, telling it to behave, to taste like home, to remember us.

I added too much pepper. You’d laugh at me for that. You never measured anything. "Life’s too strict to fuss over precision", you’d say. And somehow, it always turned out perfect. Even near the end, when your hands weren’t as steady and you pretended nothing had changed.

We used to do this together: you humming off-key Christmas carols, me sneaking tastes, arguing over who gets the first bite. The smell would fill the house. Smoky, rich, a little too spicy. And the plantains. You always insisted on turning them just right, like they had personalities.

Our son isn’t here this Christmas. He’s with your parents, being passed from arm to arm, overfed and spoiled the way you would have liked. They asked me to come too. I said next time. I needed to stay here, where it still feels like you might walk in and complain about the pepper.

Outside, the street is alive. Laughter. Car horns. Vendors shouting over one another. Lagos doing what it does best. You always said Christmas here was magical but exhausting. Too much life happening at once. Inside, it’s quiet, the smell of our jollof hanging in the air.

I taste it. Adjust. Taste again.

Don’t cry.

I close my eyes. For a moment, I can see you humming, teasing, reaching for a spoon when you think I’m not looking. I would hand you a plate, watch you pretend to complain about my seasoning, and laugh with you. I would steal a piece of plantain from your plate when you weren’t looking. I would savor every little detail of being with you, like I used to.

It’s Christmas, and I wish you were here.

I leave the stove on low.

Set two plates.

And let it rest.