Saffron and Salt

“Amazing,” I finished, smiling as I turned to face him. “It was amazing.”

He smiled back, his eyes warm and tender. “It was,” he agreed, leaning in to kiss me softly.

I kissed him back, my heart full to bursting. But even as I did, even as I let myself enjoy the moment, the fear returned, the doubt creeping in.

I knew I loved him. I knew he loved me. But I also knew that love wasn’t always enough. That sometimes, no matter how much you wanted it, no matter how hard you tried, it just wasn’t meant to be.

I didn’t know what the future held for us, what challenges we’d face, what obstacles we’d have to overcome. But I knew that for now, in this moment, I was exactly where I wanted to be. In his arms, in my bed, in the city I called home.

And for now, that was enough.

I woke the next morning to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with my mother’s name. I fumbled for it, my heart pounding as I wondered what could be so urgent at this hour.

“Mama?” I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Amara, good morning,” she said, her voice bright and cheerful. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I glanced at the clock, realizing it was already past nine. “No, no,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “I should have been up hours ago. What’s going on?”

“I was just wondering if you were free for dinner tonight,” she said, her tone casual, but I could hear the underlying curiosity in her voice. “Your father and I would love to see you. And you can bring that young man of yours, if you like.”

I blinked, surprised. “Kenji?” I asked, glancing over at him, still sleeping peacefully beside me. “You want me to bring Kenji to dinner?”

“Of course,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “We’d love to meet him properly. After all, if he’s important to you, he’s important to us.”

I bit my lip, hesitating. I knew my parents were curious about Kenji, especially after our disastrous first meeting all those years ago in New York. But I also knew that they could be… intense, especially when it came to my love life.

“Amara?” my mother prompted, her voice gentle but insistent. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry,” I said, shaking myself. “Dinner tonight sounds wonderful. I’ll check with Kenji and let you know, but I’m sure he’d love to come.”

“Excellent,” she said, sounding pleased. “We’ll see you both at seven.”

I hung up the phone, my mind racing. I looked over at Kenji, still dead to the world, and couldn’t help but smile. He looked so peaceful, so content, his dark hair tousled against the pillow.

“Hey,” I said softly, nudging him awake. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, his voice muffled.

I laughed, poking him in the ribs. “Come on, lazy bones. We’ve got plans.”

He cracked one eye open, peering at me suspiciously. “Plans?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. “What kind of plans?”

“The kind that involve meeting my parents,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “My mother just called. She’s invited us to dinner tonight.”

Kenji’s other eye flew open, and he sat up, suddenly wide awake. “Dinner?” he asked, his voice incredulous. “With your parents? Tonight?”

I nodded, biting back a smile at his obvious panic. “Don’t worry,” I said, patting his arm. “They don’t bite. Much.”

He gave me a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Very funny,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed and running a hand through his hair. “What time do we have to be there?”

“Seven,” I said, following him out of bed and padding towards the kitchen. “Which gives us plenty of time to prepare.”

“Prepare?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly do we need to prepare for?”

I shrugged, pulling out a bag of coffee and setting it on the counter. “Just the usual,” I said, measuring out the grounds. “Interrogation, judgment, subtle disapproval. You know, standard meet-the-parents stuff.”

Kenji groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not exactly selling this, you know,” he said, his voice muffled.

I laughed, pouring water into the coffee maker and hitting the start button. “Relax,” I said, leaning against the counter. “It’ll be fine. My parents are going to love you.”

He looked at me skeptically. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said, but he let me pull him into a hug, his arms wrapping around my waist.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I murmured into his chest, breathing in the warm, spicy scent of his skin.

He squeezed me tighter. “Me too,” he said, his voice soft. “Even if it does mean facing the parental gauntlet.”

I pulled back, smacking him lightly on the chest. “It’ll be fun,” I said, grinning. “Trust me.”

He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me for a second, but he let me lead him back to the bedroom to get dressed.

* * *

A few hours later, we were standing on my parents’ doorstep, Kenji looking nervous but handsome in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans, me in a colorful Ankara print dress my mother had brought me from Nigeria.

“Ready?” I asked, squeezing Kenji’s hand.

He took a deep breath, nodding. “As I’ll ever be,” he said, his voice tight.

I smiled reassuringly, leaning in to kiss him softly on the cheek. “Just be yourself,” I said. “They’ll adore you.”

With that, I knocked on the door, pasting a bright smile on my face as I heard footsteps approaching from inside.

The door swung open, revealing my mother, resplendent in a flowing boubou of deep purple and gold. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she pulled me into a tight hug, her familiar scent of shea butter and spices enveloping me.

“Amara,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Mama,” I said, hugging her back just as tightly.

She pulled back, her eyes flicking to Kenji, who stood nervously behind me. “And you must be Kenji,” she said, her smile widening as she took in his neat appearance. “Welcome. Please, come in.”

Kenji stepped forward, offering a small bow. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Adebayo,” he said, his voice polite and formal. “I appreciate the invitation.”

My mother waved a hand, ushering us inside. “Please, call me Folake,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Adebayo makes me feel old.”

I stifled a laugh at the look of surprise on Kenji’s face, leading him further into the house. The air was thick with the scent of spices – ginger, garlic, nutmeg – and the sound of Afrobeat music drifted from the kitchen.

“Daddy?” I called, poking my head into the living room.

My father looked up from his newspaper, a smile spreading across his face as he saw me. “There’s my girl,” he said, standing up and opening his arms for a hug.

I went to him, squeezing him tight. “Hi, Daddy,” I said, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. “How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he said, pulling back to look at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And who’s this young man you’ve brought with you?”

“Daddy, this is Kenji Tanaka,” I said, stepping back to let Kenji come forward. “Kenji, this is my father, Adebayo.”

Kenji offered another small bow, his face serious. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he said, his voice respectful.

My father chuckled, clapping Kenji on the shoulder. “None of that ‘sir’ business,” he said, his accent warm and rich. “Call me Adebayo. Or Bayo, if you like.”

Kenji nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Bayo,” he said, his posture relaxing slightly.

“Come on, you two,” my mother called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. Amara, why don’t you help me set the table?”

I nodded, squeezing Kenji’s hand before following my mother into the dining room. “What can I do?” I asked, watching as she bustled around, setting out steaming bowls of jollof rice, eba, and egusi soup.

“Just grab the cutlery, would you?” she said, gesturing to a drawer. “And the drinks from the fridge.”

I nodded, setting the table quickly and efficiently, my mind only half on the task. I could hear the low murmur of voices from the living room, where my father and Kenji were still talking, and I strained to catch snippets of their conversation.

“So, Kenji,” I heard my father say, his voice booming and jovial. “Amara tells me you’re a chef.”

“Yes, sir,” Kenji replied, his voice polite but guarded. “I have a restaurant in New York.”