The note says this:
4 flatscreen tv
6 dvd player
Iphone x 10
LG washing machine 4
It’s obvious what’s happening. Piko is selling stolen stuff. This is a list. As for Samantha, that’s probably the contact, or the go-between.
I turn the paper over and there’s a number: 073 478 22 19. I memorise it; it may be useful one day.
I put all the furniture back, making sure to place the note under the couch where I found it.
Then I go to the kitchen. I used to enjoy cooking. I used to cook with my mother, helping her make stew, samp, bobotie and soup. She was always nice to me when we cooked, never getting impatient if I messed anything up.
My joy of cooking has gone. I cook for Piko only, and it’s always not good enough. Too hot. Too cold. Not enough salt. Tastes like garbage. These are the ways he describes my cooking.
I imagine my mother next to me as I cook, her warm, caring presence. ‘That’s right, my darling,’ I imagine her saying as I season the sauce. ‘You’re doing it just right.’
My mother was always very loving toward me. A tear rolls down my cheek.
Tell us: Is cooking a way of bringing people together in your life? Do you like to cook? If so, what?