The house on 14 Adeola Street always smelled of frying plantain in the mornings. That day was no different.
Mama stood by the stove, turning the plantain with a wooden spoon. Papa sat at the dining table, newspapers spread out, glasses perched on his nose. Kennedy was still in his room, scrolling through his phone. And Favour, the youngest, was humming as she packed her bag for work.
“Favour, you didn’t eat,” Mama called without looking up.
“I’ll eat at the office, Mummy. I’m already late.” Favour walked into the kitchen, straightening her blouse. She looked bright that morning, hair neatly packed, lipstick soft pink.
Mama turned. “Late for what? It’s only seven-thirty.”
“Meeting starts at eight. Traffic will be bad.” Favour kissed her mother’s cheek quickly. “Bye, Mummy.”
“Favour.” Papa’s voice came from the table. “Your mother said you should eat.”
Favour laughed. “Daddy, please. I’ll buy something on the way.”
Kennedy finally came out of his room, yawning. “You’re going already?”
“Yes. Some of us have real jobs,” Favour teased, adjusting her bag strap.
Kennedy smirked. “Keep talking. When your boss starts shouting, don’t call me.”
Favour stuck out her tongue at him and headed for the door. She paused, turned back, and waved. “Bye, everybody. See you this evening.”
Nobody answered properly. Mama waved with the spoon. Papa grunted behind his paper. Kennedy was already looking at his phone again.
The door closed.
That was the last time any of them saw her.
—
By six o’clock that evening, Mama was already calling.
“Favour, where are you? Food is ready.”
The call went to voicemail.
She tried again at six-thirty. Same thing.
Kennedy walked into the kitchen, frowning. “She’s not answering?”
“No.” Mama’s voice was tight. “Maybe her phone died.”
Papa came in from the parlour. “Call her office.”
Kennedy dialled the number. A woman answered. “Hello, this is,”
“Good evening. I’m looking for Favour Okoro. She works in the marketing department.”
There was a short silence. “Favour didn’t come to work today.”
Kennedy’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean she didn’t come?”
“She never signed in. We thought she was sick.”
He hung up slowly.
Mama was staring at him. “What did they say?”
“She didn’t go to work.”
The room went quiet.
Papa stood up. “Kennedy, go and check the bus stop. Check her friends. Call everybody.”
Kennedy grabbed his keys. His hands were shaking.
—
By nine o’clock, the house was full of people. Aunties, uncles, neighbours. Phones kept ringing. Nobody had seen her.
Mama sat on the edge of the sofa, rocking slightly. “Something is wrong. Favour never stays out like this without calling.”
Papa paced. “Maybe she went to see a friend. You know these girls.”
“No.” Mama’s voice cracked. “Not my Favour. She always tells me.”
Kennedy stood by the window, staring at the dark street. He kept replaying the morning. The way she laughed. The way she stuck out her tongue. The way the door closed.
He pulled out his phone and tried her number again.
Still nothing.
Just the automated voice saying the number was unavailable.
—
At midnight, Papa finally spoke the words nobody wanted to hear.
“We need to go to the police.”
Mama shook her head hard. “No. She will come back. She always comes back.”
But Favour did not come back that night.
Or the next morning.
Or the next day.
And slowly, the house that always smelled of frying plantain began to smell of something else entirely.
Fear.
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