Telesa - The Covenant Keeper Read Free Page B

late. Once you get settled come and have something to eat in the kitchen.”
    With that invitation, she left me to unpack. I sat gingerly on the bed, looking around my surroundings. Funny, the room didn’t look lived in. The sheets crackled with newness and the mat was pristine. There wasn’t a cobweb or speck of dust anywhere. Some effort had gone into preparing for my arrival and I was touched by the thought. It lessened somewhat the awfulness of my airport welcome. My travel weariness faded – replaced with an eagerness to explore.
    I showered, gratefully replacing sweaty sticky clothes with knee-length shorts and a cotton tee, pulling my long hair up into a ponytail. I paused for a moment in front of the mirror, tilting my head to one side at my reflection. I was a ramshackle collection of ‘too’s.’ Too tall. Too broad. Hair too bushy, untameable dirt brown hair that only redeemed itself slightly by having gold highlights in the sun. Too wild, Brooke Shields eyebrows to match. Dark eyes set too deep into a forehead too wide. Lips too thick – lips that my dad called “luscious,” but who was he kidding? Legs too skinny and gangly that loved to run but didn’t do too well in high heels. Too brown to be white but too white to be brown. Ugh . I rolled my eyes at myself, wondering why I even bothered with mirrors. It’s not like I was going to look any different the more I looked. With a parting wrinkle of my nose, I went out to the kitchen.
    Uncle Tuala sat reading a newspaper while Matile bustled around with dishes and serving spoons. They both looked up at my hesitant entrance.
    “Come have something to eat. Your aunty was cooking all morning. She wasn’t sure what American children like to eat. Sit.”
    I pulled up a chair as Aunty Matile put a plate in front of me, overflowing with food. Steam rose in tantalizing swirls and the aroma had my mouth watering. I had only nibbled on the cardboard airplane meals, and I realized I was famished. Picking up my fork, I dug into the most recognizable item on the plate – fried rice – and took a huge mouthful, burning my mouth in the process. Aunty smiled at my enthusiasm.
    “You are too skinny, Leila. Oka ! Does nobody cook good food for you in America? Your grandmother - what does she cook for you?”
    I choked on a piece of chicken at her words and paused to take several gulps of ice water. No-one had ever called me too skinny. And the idea of my elegant, Vogue magazine, grandmother actually cooking anything was enough to make anyone who knew her hysterical.
    “My grandmother doesn’t cook. But she has a very nice lady – Maria – who made our meals.”
    “So why are you so thin, then? While you’re here, we need to make sure you eat good food and put on some weight. Need to get healthy. Here, try some of my chop suey.”
    Aunty scooped a pile of noodles onto my plate. I started on the other unfamiliar foods - chunks of grey potato-like stuff covered in a thick white sauce. Gingerly, I took a small bite and was surprised by the rich creaminess.
    “This is good.” I exclaimed, and was answered with a beaming smile from Aunty.
    “That’s kalo, taro. In coconut cream. Makes our Manu Samoa rugby boys big and tough.” Uncle Tuala offered helpfully.
    I smiled with a mouthful of rugby player food as I made a mental note NOT to eat too much taro – I certainly didn’t need to grow any more. Aunty handed me a steaming mug of thick black liquid that I regarded with some mistrust. It looked like engine oil, thick enough to harbor state secrets. But the aroma of roasted chocolate made me bold. The first sip confirmed for me what I had always suspected. White people drank dirty water. Brown people? Now they knew how to make cocoa.
    “This is amazing stuff, Aunty. I’ve never tasted anything like it back home.”
    “ Kokosamoa . Made from the roasted coco bean. I make it myself from our tree out back.” Aunty spoke with pleasure, as if unused to receiving