“How about I pray?”
A familiar voice makes my brows shoot up. I turn around. My heart plummets. Standing at the doorway is none other than Aunty Debbie.
“Funke, what time do you call this?”
Mum is the only person to still address her younger sister by her native name.
“Did it not say two o’clock on the invitation that I gave you, ehn? Seriously, you take ‘African time’ to the next level.”
Aunty Debbie tuts and pulls off the huge Chanel glasses that have been sitting on her heavily contoured nose.
“Tolu. I live all the way in Hampstead, you know.”
A ripple of suppressed chuckles fills the room and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yes, Aunty, we all know that you and your husband make a tidy sum thanks to your flourishing property investment business. You don’t have to constantly remind us.
“The drive took over an hour,” she drawls in her best attempt at a “British” accent which she tends to put on and take off like a coat. “That reminds me”—she folds her glasses, hanging them over the V-neck of her white silk blouse—“will my Porsche be safe outside?”
Mum’s mouth hangs open. Big Mama kisses her teeth.
“Debbie, Peckham isn’t how it used to be, you know,” pipes up Aunty Blessing, the oldest of the three sisters. Unlike Mum and Aunty Debbie, Aunty Blessing has what I call a BBC newsreader accent, one she developed over her thirty-plus years of being a barrister. “In fact, the place is pretty much gentrified.”
“Gentri-what?” Mum looks confused.
Kemi butts in before they start arguing. “Mum, I thought you wanted to pray for Yinka?” She folds her arms over her protruding stomach, then cocks her head at Aunty Debbie. “And Aunty,” she says with a small laugh, “Don’t worry. Your car is safe outside. Uche and I have lived here for close to a year, and no one has nicked our Ford Fiesta.”
“Well, who would want to steal— Never mind. Anyway, Tolu, let me pray,” says Aunty Debbie, and immediately my stomach tightens with dread. “We could all do with a change of voice, yes? And besides, I’m late.” She fluffs her wig. “The very least I can do is pray for my niece.” She flashes me a wide smile. I return to her a tiny, begrudging one.
I haven’t forgotten what you did at Kemi’s wedding, I think, scowling at her as she closes her eyes.
“Dear God . . . we thank you for the life of Tolu’s eldest daughter, Yinka Beatrice Oladeji.”
I feel a tug at my right hand as the lady beside me pulls hers away.
“Sorry,” I whisper. I must have been clenching her fingers.
“We thank you for the excellent job you have blessed Yinka with, and the house she bought a few years back. She is quite an exemplary woman and has achieved some remarkable things.”
My hunched shoulders relax. Okay. This isn’t too bad.
“Lord,” she continues. “We’ve not long entered the new year—”
“New year,” Mum echoes.
“And the Bible says that through you, all things are possible—”
Mum claps. “Yes, Lord!”
“So, with this in mind, Lord, I pray that this year will be the year . . . the year that Yinka finds her huzband.”
What the—
I glare at Aunty Debbie, who has paused for a hot second to allow everyone to say their Amens. Obviously, Mum and Big Mama’s are the loudest, and they raise their arms to the ceiling as though any second now my miracle husband will descend.
I grit my teeth.
“Lord,” Aunty Debbie rattles on. “Yinka is thirty-two—”
“Thirty-one,” I mutter under my breath.
“There is no reason why, at the age of thirty-two, a woman of her caliber should still be single.”
“God forbid!” Mum inserts.
“In the same way you brought Kemi a huzband, Lord, bring Yinka a huzband of her own. Don’t delay your blessing. Bring him this year.”
The loudest Amens come from two other “aunties” standing in front of the sofa—one, vigorously shaking her head, the other mouthing her own prayer. Some of Kemi’s friends are sucking in their lips to hold back a laugh, but one isn’t as tactful and snorts.
I inhale to stay calm.
“Sorry,” Kemi mouths with a pitying expression on her face—which I’ve grown accustomed to a lot lately.
This isn’t your fault, I want to tell her. I mean, all you did was fall in love with a guy you met at uni who you got married to at twenty-five. And yes, I would have had a lot less pressure to settle down if you hadn’t got knocked up during your honeymoon in Costa Rica and waited, I dunno, maybe another year or two? But everyone finds love in their own time, and yours just happened to be before mine. My time will come. I know it will.
While I try to telepathically say all this to Kemi, Aunty Debbie starts up again.
“Lord, bring Yinka a good, good huzband. A man who is God-fearing, tall and educated—”
“Okay, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.” The interjection comes from Aunty Blessing, and I resist the urge to hail her.
But never one to take hints, Aunty Debbie doesn’t wrap it up. Instead, she remains silent, tilting her chin toward the ceiling, eyelids firmly closed. The silence is so uncomfortable, a few of Kemi’s friends begin to twitch.
“Lord,” she declares finally, waving a hand in the air as she does at All Welcome Church when she catches a whiff of the Holy Spirit. “Do what only YOU can do. Intervene, Heavenly Father. Intervene! In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”
Everyone utters, “Amen,” all eyes wide open. And who are they staring at? Me, of course. The lady with red hair now looks as though she’s about to cry, and one of Kemi’s friends says loudly, “Gosh, man.” Two aunties in front of the sofa are busy chanting, “àmín ní orúk? Jésù!” which, despite my basic knowledge of Yoruba, I know translates to, “Amen in the name of Jesus!” Mum is still striking a Rafiki. And Aunty Debbie . . . well, she looks delighted.
I want to punch a wall. I am desperate to leave but I can’t. Not when everyone is watching me. To my relief, the music resumes and Aunty Blessing gyrates to the center of the room.
“Isn’t this supposed to be a party?” She’s swinging her head from side to side. “Come on, now!” she yells at our awkward faces. “You’re not about to leave me dancing solo.” She pulls Kemi, twirling her around, then begins to do God knows what with her hips.
“Heeeey! Heeeey!” She’s mimicking Kemi’s dance moves from earlier; when the chorus comes in, it doesn’t take long for Kemi’s friends to gravitate toward the center. They wail the wrong words over the pidgin English lyrics, their bums never failing to miss a beat. I exhale for what feels like the first time in the last hour.
With everyone now distracted, I scurry out of the living room and race down the corridor. I just have to grab my jacket from Kemi’s bedroom, then I can leave.
“Oh.” I halt at the doorway, my rapid heartbeat kicking the breath out of me. “You’re here.”
My cousin Ola is on her knees by Daniel, her youngest.
“Hey,” she says, focusing back on the nappy in her hand. “Yeah, I arrived with my mum, but Daniel needed changing.”
Daniel squeals and kicks his pudgy legs.
For a moment I’m distracted by his cuteness, then I make my way to the bed where there is a mountain of coats and jackets. I waste no time in disassembling it.
“Is Rachel here? Nana?” Ola asks, and when I glance down at her, I notice that she has changed her hair. Again. When we went shopping on Boxing Day with Rachel and Nana her hairstyle was a long, black weave. That was what—two weeks ago? It was Brazilian hair, I think. Or maybe it was Peruvian? As a lifelong natural hair wearer, I wouldn’t know. Now her hair tousles in waves down her back, the color of golden syrup. Her makeup is the same as usual—lots of foundation, blush, false lashes. There is never a day when Ola isn’t glammed up.