“Mum!” Kemi says again, emphasizing the indignity of the conversation.
I shake my head. “Okay, Mum. I know you don’t like my hair.” I return the photo into the cabinet, ignoring Kemi’s guilty expression. Then I spot something. “Well, well, well. Look at what we have here.” With a delicious smile, I pull out an old photograph of my parents. Daddy has a massive afro while Mum has a mop of Jerri-curls.
“Is this short hair I see?” I tease, brandishing the photo under her nose.
“Abeg.” Mum flails her arm. “That was the fashion at the time.”
“And you weren’t even married yet,” I wail, and Kemi laughs. “Aunty Debbie told me that this photo was taken on your first date. Tell us, where did he take you? Was he a nervous wreck? Did he even talk?”
Mum snatches the photo. “Yinka, you ask too many questions. Every time you come, you dey ask question as if you’re a news reporter.” She returns the photo to its place and stands in front of the cabinet.
Mum’s always like this. Never wanting to talk about Daddy or anything in the past, always shutting me down. I know she can be superstitious—she doesn’t like to talk about the dead. But come on, we’re talking about Daddy.
“Anyway, food is nearly ready. I just need to prepare the pounded yam.” Mum wipes her brow, and I make a mental note to talk to her after we’ve eaten.
“I’ll lay the table,” I offer.
“No, Yinka. You’ll help me in the kitchen.”
I turn to Kemi. She normally helps Mum.
“Or I can help,” Kemi says.
Mum shakes her head. “Kemi, tell me. Who is it that is pregnant? You or Yinka?”
* * *
—
On the stove, there’s a pot of red stew and what looks like spinach inside, simmering.
Mum grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into another pot filled with fine yam powder, then hands me a wooden spatula. “Prepare the pounded yam,” she says.
I swallow. I hardly ever make Nigerian food.
“Go on, then,” she cries, and I edge tentatively toward the stove, clutching the spatula like a toilet plunger. Looking down at the pot, I dip the spatula inside. I tell myself, It’s just like making mashed potatoes.
“Ah, ah! Start now!” Mum cries, jolting me. “Don’t just stand there. Use your arms.”
I get to work, turning the spatula this way and that. The pot is rocking so badly, I worry it might fall off the side.
“Put some umph into it,” Mum keeps saying. She’s peering over my shoulder. “Come on, Yinka. Pound the yam well, well.”
I increase my pace. I exert more force. I’m working the spatula, although I might as well be doing battle ropes. I break into a hot sweat.
Sadly, it’s not enough.
“You this girl, you’re so British.” Mum nudges me to the side and takes over. “What will you feed your huzband, ehn? What will you cook him when you get married?”
“Well . . . I won’t be the only one doing the cooking.”
Mum kisses her teeth. “Don’t be feeding your huzband chicken and chips o.”
I laugh. Growing up, I loved chicken and chips. I still treat myself to Chicken Cottage every now and again. Okay, maybe a bit more than that.
“Bring me three plates.” Mum is done in nanoseconds. Only she could transform what looked like white mushy baby food into the smoothest, oval-shaped dough.
I do as I’m told and fetch three mismatched plates from the dish rack. After laying them on the freezer top, Mum plonks a slab of hot pounded yam onto the first.
“Small, please,” I blurt as she’s about to dish the final one.
“Small?” Mum parrots. She slaps me a portion as big as an ostrich egg. “Yinka, you’re too skinny. You need to put on some weight. Look at your sister, Kemi.” She moves on to scooping the stew. “Her bum-bum is bigger than your own.”
I pull down my cardigan, my cheeks burning.
Once Mum has finished dishing the plates, I pile them onto a tray with a bowl of soapy water and a spoon. Mum shouts at me to put the spoon back.
“Eat with your hands!” she yells. “Nawa o! You’re so British.”
Yeah . . . well . . . I was born here.
I’m just about to carry the tray to the living room when Mum places a hand on my shoulder.
“Yinka,” she says in a hushed tone. “Please. I don’t want to pressure you, but for the love of God, give Aunty Funke’s offer some thought. Don’t be stubborn now. Abeg, come to my church tomorrow.” She looks so desperate, I almost want to laugh.
“Okay,” I say breezily. Well, that saves me from having to initiate the conversation. “But on one condition, Mum. We keep this between us. Seriously.” I look over my shoulder. “I don’t want Kemi knowing either.”
Mum pretends to zip her lips, which have now stretched into a wide smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and I pull aside the beaded door curtain to leave.
“Jesus is Lord!” I hear her yell.
Preach!
SUNDAY
RACHEL CREATED GROUP “I’M GETTING MARRIED, BIATCH!”
RACHEL
Hey chicas, good seeing y’all on Friday.
I’m sooo excited to share my special day with you
Now as you know, we only got only SIX MONTHS!
There’s A LOT to do
Will arrange a bridal meeting ASAP
Keep you posted
OLA
Can’t wait! Your wedding is going to be sick!
And babes, call me if you need anything, okay
NANA
Jheeze, unleash the bridezilla
Now I know to put this group on mute
Autocorrection: You only got six months
Lol
YINKA
Nana you crack me up
Don’t worry, Rach. We got you x
“We are singing thank you, Jesus. Thank you, my Lord. We are singing thank you, Jesus. Thank you, my Lord.”
After what feels like hours of the congregation singing the same line over and over again, the worship team lower their tambourines, and the song comes to an end.
“Let’s give them a hand.” Pastor Adekeye steps toward the pulpit.
The congregation applaud the worship team as they leave the stage.
I can’t believe I’m here. Back at All Welcome Church after God knows how many years. But I guess it makes sense for me to meet the man that I’ve appointed as my boyfriend. After showering this morning, I rummaged through my drab wardrobe, tried on a few outfits, and took a few selfies to help me decide. In the end, I decided to go for a bit of color, and paired my fuchsia turtleneck with my stonewashed skinny jeans.
I just hope he doesn’t notice my flat bum, I’d thought, as I swiped through my photos again.
“Repeat after me!” Pastor Adekeye’s voice makes me jump. I look up at the projection screen. Pastor is a charismatic character who likes to wear crocodile skin shoes.
As though he is preparing for a big dinner, he tugs his blazer behind him, then booms, “This is my year!”
“This is my year!” the congregation echo.
Pastor Adekeye grimaces and stops in his tracks. “What was that?” he spits. “Are you still asleep? I said, THIS IS MY YEARRRR!” he repeats with ten times more vigor, and the congregation does the same, fists pumping the air.
I crane my neck, trying to spot Aunty Debbie, but there are too many people. Too many gèlès.
“Let me tell you sometin.” Pastor Adekeye is pacing to the other side of the stage. “God wants to bless you this year, do you know that? He wants to bless you abundantly. Financially.”
This arouses the crowd, who, with arms outstretched wide, declare, “Amen!”
“Amen,” I say a second after everyone else. Now that I’m unemployed, I could do with some money—Oh, no. What would Alex make of me being unemployed? Well, I was made redundant. I’m sure he’ll understand.
While Pastor Adekeye strides to the other side, I can’t help but picture what Alex might look like. I wonder if he has a goatee? Stubble? He could be clean-shaven? Who knows, he might even have a full-on Babylonian beard? My thoughts are interrupted again.
“He wants to bless you with good health!”
“Yes, Pastor,” a few heckle. “Preach!”
“And for some of you, He wants to bless you with children.”
“Amen!”