THE VOICE CALLING FROM THE KITCHEN

The first time I heard my dead father calling my name, I did exactly what any sensible man would do... I covered my head with a blanket and pretended I was still a child...

My father had been dead for three weeks... I was spending a few days in his house before returning to Abuja, trying to sort out some of his belongings. The house felt strange without him. His old radio sat beside his favourite chair, his slippers were still near the sitting room door, as if he had only stepped outside to buy something and sometimes, I caught myself listening for his cough...

My father and I were not exactly enemies, but we had our differences. He believed I was always too busy chasing money and building a future to remember the people who had helped me get there... Our last argument was about that.

I had visited him one Sunday but I barely spent an hour before announcing that I had somewhere else to be...

He shook his head. “That is what you keep telling me.”.. Three days later, he collapsed in his sitting room... My sister called me that evening, crying so badly I could barely understand her, by the time I got to the hospital, my father was gone but the part that still troubled me was the call I had missed that afternoon... I had seen his number flash on my phone, but I was busy with something important. I told myself I would call him back... I never did and that was the memory I carried into his house.

The first night, I was lying on his old bed when I heard a voice from the kitchen..
“Samuel, have you eaten?”.
I sat up immediately..
It was my father's voice. The same deep voice that used to call me whenever he wanted me to come and eat, even when I had already told him I wasn't hungry...
I held my breath...
“Samuel?”

I got out of bed and walked to the kitchen. The light was off. Nothing moved. The pots were where I had left them, and the back door was locked... I checked the sitting room too.. Empty... I returned to bed, telling myself grief could do strange things to the mind.

The following night, it happened again and this time, I heard the sound of a spoon hitting a plate before the voice came...

“Samuel, come and eat before the food gets cold.”..
I nearly ran out of the house but Instead, I called my sister... When I told her what had happened, she went quiet for a moment.

“You know Daddy always complained that you never stayed long enough to eat with him,” she said...
“Please, don't start that now.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I'm just saying he missed you.”

After the call, I sat in the darkness for a long time.

The next evening, I decided to cook.

I made rice and stew, the way my father liked it, with enough pepper to make an ordinary person start questioning their life choices. I even brought out his old enamel plate, the one with the chipped blue edge.

I placed it on the table and sat opposite it.

For the first time since his death, I spoke to him.

“Daddy, I'm sorry.”

The house remained silent.

“I should have answered your call. I should have visited more often. I kept thinking there would always be another weekend.”

My throat tightened.

“I thought I had time.”

Then I heard a chair scrape against the floor in the kitchen.

I froze.

A familiar smell drifted through the room. My father's tobacco. He had quit smoking years ago, but somehow that smell always clung to his clothes.

“Samuel,” the voice said from the corridor.

My heart began to pound.

“I want to tell you something.”

I stared at the dark doorway... Every sensible part of me screamed to leave, but another part of me wanted to hear him speak just once more.

I took a step forward.

Then came the question.

“Why didn't you pick up when I called you?”

My knees almost gave way.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

There was silence.

Then his voice softened.

“I know, my son.”

I don't remember what happened after that... I woke up the next morning at my neighbour's house. He said he had found me sitting outside my father's gate shortly before dawn. I couldn't explain how I had gotten there.

That same day, I packed my things and returned to Abuja.

For months, I avoided talking about what happened. I convinced myself that grief had played tricks on me. It was easier to believe that than to consider the alternative.

Then, one evening, my sister called.

She told me she had dreamed about our father. In the dream, he was sitting in his favourite chair, asking whether I was eating properly.

We laughed about it, but after the call, I sat quietly for a while.

That night, I cooked rice.

I was halfway through my meal when I heard a familiar voice from the kitchen.

“Samuel, have you eaten?”

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.

I live alone in Abuja. Nobody else had a key to my apartment.

I slowly turned towards the kitchen.

Nothing.

Then I heard it again, softer this time.

“My son, don't let your food get cold.”

I didn't move.

I couldn't.

Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was my mind refusing to let go of a man I never properly said goodbye to.

Or maybe some doors don't close completely when people die.

All I know is that whenever I hear that voice calling from the kitchen, I sit very still.

Because a part of me wants to answer and another part is terrified of finding out who is waiting for me.

_{Image Source: Chatgpt}