[Scene: Ifeoma’s cluttered with empty noodles, The scent of reheated groundnut oil lingers, while having a conversation with Chikodili]

Chikodili (throwing words from the side):
Ifeoma, you look like a ghost that forgot her own grave. When last did you eat something…alive?

Ifeoma (stares at her cold pasta, pushes it away):
Alive? This is food. Quick. Cheap. What else matters?

Chikodili (leans forward, voice honeyed but edged):
Your brain’s rotting, sister. Seed oils, noodles, this…dust you call pasta. You used to handle Emeka very well. Now you complain of every touch.

Ifeoma (slams her fist, rattling the table):
And you? You’re suddenly a saint? I see your lifestyle—nights out, “errands” that last till dawn. You think I don’t hear whispers?

Chikodili (smirks, deshelling slower):
Whispers? Or jealousy?

Ifeoma (voice cracks):
Jealous of what? Rotating inside your man’s mic (pen*s) like a stuck DVD?

Chikodili (soft, dangerous):
You think it’s about him? (leans closer) It’s about stamina & survival. You choke on noodles—almost fainting at every penetration while I…negotiate it with healthy foods. But you’re too busy drowning in guilt to see the game.

Ifeoma (whispers):
What game?

Chikodili (stands, wiping her hands):
The one where you either eat rubbish…and let it k1ll you. (pauses at the door) Friday. My place. Wear red.

Ifeoma:
Why?

Chikodili (over her shoulder, grinning):
To learn how to swallow more than pride.

[She exits. Ifeoma stares at the cold pasta, then hurls it against the wall. The sauce drips like a warning.]