CHAPTER ONE
The kettle gave a faint whistle.
It was a muted morning in the London suburbs. Pale sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds, softening the sharp lines of the modest but neat kitchen. Steam curled above the freshly cleaned hob. The room — thoughtfully furnished, if not fancy — carried the quiet dignity of a space kept with care. A small flat-screen TV mounted near the fridge murmured the morning news in hushed tones. On the wall, a few framed photographs — none recent. A handwritten grocery list clung to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a strawberry.
The appliances were familiar and dependable: microwave, blender, air fryer. Nothing extravagant, but everything necessary. The house — a semi-detached house, nestled in a quiet street — wasn't luxurious, but it was safe. Lived-in. Loved, in its own quiet way.
Helen moved with quiet purpose. Mid-forties, her locs tucked beneath a satin scarf, her robe crisp and clean. She flipped slices of plantain in a pan, checked the toast, poured hot water into two mugs where ginger tea had been steeping. One of the mugs had a small chip near the rim — Maya's favorite, for reasons unknown.
Her movements were efficient, practical. Not rushed, not leisurely. The way someone moved through a home they managed out of duty more than warmth. As she worked, she hummed under her breath — a half-remembered Igbo hymn — then stopped with a sigh, casting a glance at the wall clock.
7:41 A.M.
"Maya!" she called, her voice raised just enough to carry upstairs. "You'll be late — come and have something, please!"
No answer.
Helen didn't bother calling again. She simply continued, setting the table with quiet focus: toast, scrambled eggs, slices of avocado, a few golden pieces of plantain. Plates were arranged neatly, cutlery lined up with care. The aroma of breakfast — buttery eggs and toasted bread — filled the space, comforting and familiar.
Footsteps padded softly down the stairs.
Maya entered the kitchen without a word, shoulders wrapped in a hooded sweatshirt, headphones dangling from her neck. Her curls were messy, eyes still clouded with sleep. She slumped into her seat.
"Morning," she mumbled.
"Morning," Helen replied, matching her daughter's tone but with a touch more steadiness.
She poured tea into Maya's mug and sat across from her. For a while, they ate in silence — not a hostile one, but something duller. A space where words used to live but didn't anymore. Two people sharing air, not much else.
The television played on in the background, a news anchor discussing upcoming elections. On the fridge, a photo caught the edge of morning light — Helen and a much younger Maya, no older than six, standing barefoot in front of a hibiscus bush in Nigeria.
Maya sipped her tea, her eyes still on the TV.
"Did Grandma really used to take pictures?" she asked, casually.
Helen looked up, surprised by the question.
"She did. Why?"
"I remembered… that silver camera. She gave it to me, right?"
"Hm. Olympus. Small thing. You wouldn't let go of it. Took photos of shoes, floors, ants — anything that moved or didn't."
Helen gave a soft chuckle. Maya didn't. She just poked at her toast.
"She never really talked about it," Maya said. "I mean, I don't remember her saying much."
"She stopped before you were born," Helen replied. "But back then? That woman was everywhere with that camera. Naming faces, documenting birthdays, church events… People called her Mama Photo."
Maya stared down at her eggs.
"That's cool," she murmured. Then, quieter: "You never talk about her either."
Helen paused for a beat, with sadness in her eyes. "Not because I don't want to. Some things are hard to carry every day."
There was a long pause. Maya shrugged, trying to sound offhand, but her tone had an edge to it.
"Guess it skips generations."
"What?" Helen asked.
"Nothing."
Silence followed again. Helen watched her daughter closely.
"You used to like that camera," she said. "Even when it broke. Mr. Adeyemi said you have good hands — creative. Have you made a decision about the music night?"
Maya's body tensed. She didn't look up.
"I told you I'm not doing it."
"But it's one performance. And you've worked hard. The school — "
"I don't want to be on some stupid stage with people I don't like," Maya snapped, cutting her off.
Helen sipped her tea, keeping her voice even.
"You always start something and then stop. Guitar. Braiding. Enamel jewelry making and now maybe music. Why?"
"Why do you care now?"
The question landed like a slap. Helen's expression faltered, just briefly — then steadied again.
"Because I'm your mother. And I know you. I know when you're afraid of being seen."
That was it. Maya stood abruptly and grabbed her bag from the chair.
"You didn't finish your food," Helen said quietly.
"I'm not hungry."
"Maya — "
"You don't get it. You never do."
And she was gone. The front door clicked shut a second later.
Helen remained seated at the table. The kettle began to whistle again, unnecessary now. She turned off the stove.
The house grew still.
Her eyes drifted to the photo on the fridge — the little girl with a plastic camera and a full smile. A memory from another country, another time.
And she closed her eyes.
And for a fleeting moment, time bent backward.
There she was — Maya at four, running barefoot through the hallway in a yellow princess dress, a cereal box crown sliding off her curls, giggling so hard she could barely breathe.
"Mummy, see, you can't catch me!"
Helen remembered the way Maya's laughter used to echo through the house, full of joy, full of trust. The way she would crawl into Helen's lap without asking, press tiny fingers to her mother's cheek and whisper secrets made of nonsense.
But then the flashes darkened
Maya, six years old, clutching a stuffed rabbit on a plane seat, quiet as a whisper, staring out the window as clouds swallowed the horizon.
That visit to Nigeria. That difficult year.
The divorce had left bruises, the kind that didn't show in photographs. Since then, something in Maya had shifted. The child who once narrated her every thought grew quiet. Protective. A little harder to reach each year.
Helen's throat tightened.
She wanted to hold the memory in place, to walk backward into it, but —
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The alarm on her phone chirped loudly from the windowsill.
8:00 A.M.
She opened her eyes.
The kitchen was just a kitchen again — still and half-lit, plates cooling on the table, tea gone tepid. The ghost of Maya's laughter vanished like breath on glass.
Helen exhaled, rose slowly, and began to tidy the plates. Her movements were brisk now. Plate. Fork. Mug. Into the sink. Wipe the crumbs.
The routine anchored her.
She rinsed her hands, dried them on the striped towel near the fridge, and headed to her room to prepare for work — her steps measured, her face unreadable.
Another morning, folded into itself.