Mairo was teaching Sociology at Michigan State University since returning to her brother Habibu’s house. That evening, she was sitting in the study room, wearing her white reading glasses, studying *Haralambos and Holborn (Sociology, Themes and Perspectives)* for a challenging assignment on *hedonism* due the next day. 

Aunty Dina knocked on the door and entered, her face lit with a smile. The soft fragrance of her Yves Saint Laurent perfume, as always, greeted Mairo’s nose first. Dina was a woman of elegance, her scent a testament to her refined taste. She pulled a chair across from Mairo, sat down, and said, “Mairo, I need a favor. I’m going to London tomorrow—can you come with me?” Mairo quickly shook her head. “I have a lot of schoolwork tomorrow, and I need to submit my assignment. What are you going to do there?”

Dina replied, “To watch this year’s Filmfare Awards. It’s better to see it live than on TV—it’s clearer that way. They’ve been announcing it all week.”

Mairo hadn’t realized Aunty Dina’s love for Indian films was so intense that she’d travel from Michigan to London just for a gala. She quickly said, “Come back soon. I can’t go.”

Habibu had already arranged for Dina’s flight ticket the next day, leaving just the two of them at home. Mairo was at school all morning, struggling with her tasks alongside her friend Ir’eesh Tawheedah, a Somali classmate. She didn’t return home until evening and found Habibu already back, sitting in the living room with the kids, helping them with their schoolwork. When Mairo greeted them, the kids jumped up, hugging her and chanting “oyoyo.”

Habibu looked up, surprised, thinking to himself, “Is this Mairo? Mairo of Gurin-Gawa, Mairo the bold!” He recalled a memory, smiling (a palm fruit falling from a tree in Gurin-Gawa village), and said, “Mairo, the schoolgirl… Mairo of Dina… Mairo of Yaya Habibu!” She burst into laughter, her white teeth shining. That was his way of teasing her for fun. She went to her room, carrying her bag to freshen up.

After performing the Maghrib prayer and changing her clothes, she joined them in the living room. Later, Habibu emerged from his room, dressed sharply and smelling good, clearly in a hurry. He looked at her and said, “Quick, prepare dinner—an African dish. I have an important guest coming soon. My dear friend Amiru is arriving from Washington, D.C., and I’m going to pick him up from the airport.” His excited tone and mannerisms showed this guest was someone significant to him. Mairo had heard Amiru’s name often from both Habibu and Dina. It seemed like no day passed without one of them mentioning him.

She responded politely, “Alright, see you when you get back.”

As he left, she headed to the kitchen. Lynder, who was cleaning, stepped aside to let her pass. Mairo opened the deep freezer, pondering what to cook. Her mind settled on tuwo shinkafa with fresh okra stew, as they had canned okra available.

She immediately started cooking, using dried fish and mushroom curry in the stew, filling the kitchen with a delightful aroma. They had zobo, so she boiled and strained it, blended pineapple, mixed it with the zobo for flavor, and poured it into a jug to chill in the fridge without adding sugar. She knew Habibu loved danwake; any African dish, especially danwake, was his favorite. So, she soaked potash, kneaded the dough, and rolled it into balls, dropping them into boiling water. In no time, she finished everything.

She turned off her phone without replying to Nabilah. Her body felt unusually calm. Nabilah’s words were always similar to Aunty Dina’s—why was that? Especially since they didn’t know each other or had ever met.