But Ola ignores me, scooting out of the booth.
“I’d better go after her,” says Rachel, bundling her coat and stacks of magazines to her chest. “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah.” In a blink, she’s gone.
“What just happened here?” I wheel around to Nana, who looks remarkably calm, still chewing her food. “How did we get from ten to one hundred?”
“You know Ola has a temper,” says Nana, reaching over to grab Ola’s plate. She slides her remaining chips onto her own. “The fresh air will calm her down.”
I glance over at Rachel’s and Ola’s empty seats, my heart heavy in my chest. “It’s not fair. She was being rude to me.”
No longer hungry, I push my plate to one side. I need to learn to stick up for myself. I’m no longer that bullied little girl. But sometimes, sadly, I still feel like her.
Abeg. Give her a discount, ehn?
SATURDAY
Am I a pushover?
After I helped Nana move her belongings into my spare room, we drove to Deptford—the Mecca for ankara fabrics—as Nana wanted to buy some material for a particular dress she plans to make for her fashion show. With the exception of her stinking out my second bedroom with her sage and palo santo incense, the move has gone pretty well. We’re in a small fabric shop now, strolling in between the aisles while I make another attempt to get ahold of Ola. There are tons of patterned fabrics, all folded on top of each other on giant wide shelves. I finger one sparkly lace material with silver swirly patterns while I listen to the ringing down the line.
“Any luck?” Nana asks.
I hold up a finger, phone to my ear. I hear a click.
“Hi, this is Ola. I’m unable to reach the phone right now—”
Disheartened, I end the call.
“Look, there’s not much you can do,” says Nana. “You’ve called her like three times already.”
“Actually, five,” I mutter.
“Just give her some space.” She sighs. “You know what Ola’s like when she’s in her feelings. She’ll come around . . . eventually.”
Nodding, I put my phone away. I was really hoping to patch things up with Ola. But Nana’s right—whenever we’ve fallen out in the past it’s always me rushing to make up and her holding out. The girl needs to be angry for a while.
I step to one side so that an aunty can pass, bending my knees to greet her. Meanwhile, Nana pulls out a sparkly orangey-gold fabric with splashes of gems and flower-shaped appliqué on it.
“I can’t believe you have a design in mind already.”
“Trust me, girl,” she says. “I’ve racked up tons of ideas for my fashion business over the years. I was just too chicken to do anything about them. But now . . .” She winks at me. “I’m putting myself out there too.”
Nana continues to browse the shelves, like she’s looking for a book in the library. She bends, pulls out different fabrics and ponders for a moment before returning them.
“Right. What are we looking for?” I ask. Might as well be useful instead of just standing here, mesmerized by all the colors.
“A gold nude,” she replies after returning another fabric into its pile. “Oh, Aunty!” She turns around. Behind the glass counter, a round-faced Black woman appears, wearing a red chiffon blouse and a crucifix.
“Nana.” She smiles. “My favorite customer. How may I help you today?”
Nana greets the woman and then introduces me. She pulls out her phone, taps on it and hands it over to the aunty.
“Wow-wee!” the aunty exclaims. “This is niiiiiice. I really like it.”
“Nice” doesn’t do justice to the dress that Nana has sketched. The dress is, in one word, fire. It has a Grecian-style bodice with a see-through mesh underneath which goes over the shoulder and falls like a cape. The bottom half—I learned this from Nana—is called a godet, with triangular fabric inserted at even intervals around the hem. A dress like this would make any woman feel like a supermodel.
“I’m looking for a bronzey gold color,” Nana says. “Oh, in Swiss voile lace, please.”
The aunty grins. “Don’t worry. I have.” She hands Nana her phone back. The aunty ambles around the counter, grabbing a stepladder en route. She props it against the shelves and pulls out three gold lace fabrics from the top.
“See, Aunty, this is why I love you,” says Nana, reaching for the fabric in the middle. I look between the three laid out on the counter. They all look the same to me. Nana thoroughly inspects the material. “For five yards, how much?”
“One hundred,” says the aunty.
I cough. “One hundred!” Mum buys material all the time and she doesn’t pay half that price.
“Aunty,” I say, stepping in, placing a hand on Nana’s arm. The girl is already rummaging for her purse. Is she crazy? “Nana is a loyal customer of yours. Abeg. Give her a discount, ehn?” I clap the back of my hand in the same way that Mum does when she haggles.
“Okay,” the aunty says. “For you, ninety-five.”
Before I can counter her price again, Nana pulls me away.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, and I’m stunned by the agitation in her voice.
“What am I doing?” My eyes widen, and I hiss back. “Nana, you’re getting bumped. And I know what you’re going to say: the material is high-quality, yada, yada. But even I know she’s charging way too much—”
Nana holds up her hand. “Would you ask for a discount at Prada?”
“Me? Walk into Prada?” I laugh.
“Seriously, Yinka, would you? At Gucci? Louis Vuitton? Dior? No, you wouldn’t, would you? So let’s keep the same energy with small businesses. Small Black-owned businesses, mind you.”
I bite my lip. “I see your point.”
That’s one thing about Nana—she’s not afraid to call me out. But whenever she does, she does it out of love.
Nana rubs my shoulder. “We have to support each other and part of that means paying full-price for things. If we don’t, then God knows what our communities will look like three, four years from now. And don’t forget. I’m going to be a small business owner too.”
I think of my beloved Peckham and how it’s gradually changing. Barber’s shops are being replaced with coffee shops, and pubs and bars are the “hidden gems” it’s now known for. I think of all the hair shops and the market stalls selling those Ghana-must-go bags. I would hate to see them pushed out.
We head back to the counter arm in arm, and Nana pays the aunty full-price.
“I’ve put some beads in the bag for you,” the aunty says, handing Nana a sturdy carrier bag. “On the house.” She winks.
* * *
—
In the spirit of supporting Black-owned businesses, Nana and I head next to a Caribbean takeaway nearby. We sit by the window, and tear into our yellow, crusted patties—I went for the beef, Nana went for the lamb—while downing KA grape punch.
Nana fans her mouth. “Damn, this is spicy.”
I laugh then kiss my teeth. “Come on, girl. You’re African. You can take the heat. Ooh, I forgot to take a photo.” I return my half-eaten patty to my plate, positioning it next to my soda, shrill, “One for the gram!” and take a shot.
Nana laughs. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’ve become one of those people.”
“My page is just looking a little sparse, that’s all. Ooh, let’s take a selfie.”
“I’m good,” Nana says quickly, then when she sees my face, “But I can take a photo of you.”
When she’s taken a few, I swipe through them and my excitement dwindles. I can hardly see my features because the restaurant’s lighting is so dim. Half-heartedly, I go for the one where I look the most natural, then upload it to Instagram, selecting the Clarendon filter to brighten it up.
I put down my phone, mulling over the thing that I’ve been feeling bad about all morning. “Thanks for not bringing up my redundancy last night.”
“How come you didn’t tell the girls? No offense, hun, but that’s pretty messed up.”
I slump in my chair. “I know. But if I had told the truth, Ola would’ve told her mum, then her mum would tell my mum, and then I would have to deal with all the drama.”