“Actually, Derek. I can’t.” I sigh. “I just remembered, on Thursday I have a job interview. I’m going to need the whole of Wednesday to prepare.”
“Oh, sure, of course.” Derek bats a hand. “No worries. Besides, the outreach will be on every Wednesday and Thursday, so whenever you’re free, just swing by. Oh, and congrats on the job interview. That’s really great. Who’s it with? What’s the role?”
My arms sagging, I squeak. “Sorry, Derek, but I really have to go. We’ll catch up another time, yeah.” Dammit. Why did I say that?
As I near the tables, I feel a cramp in my arms. Friggin’ heck. These plates are like dumbbells. I scan the throng. Ah-hah! I see them. They’re at a table at the very back, and Vanessa appears to be chewing Alex’s ears off. No wonder he didn’t join me in the queue.
I channel my inner superwoman and make a beeline toward him, navigating my way around tables, squeezing behind a number of untucked chairs, and stopping to greet uncles and aunties. All while carrying two plates the weight of a newborn.
Suddenly, I’m pulled back. My handbag is caught on the arm of a chair.
As I turn to rescue my bag, I hear a wail so piercing, it makes my shoulders jump. I turn back round and almost die.
Standing right below me is a crying toddler. More specifically, a crying toddler covered head-to-toe with what should have been Alex’s lunch.
“God help me.”
Trembling, I set down the plates and cutlery on a nearby table, grab a napkin and drop to my knees. The little boy is belting his lungs out—of course he is. He’s covered in fucking chow mein!
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I’m dabbing the three-ply napkin all over his dungarees, which thanks to me and my stupid handbag will likely end up in the bin, unless there’s a magical detergent that can get rid of sweet-and-sour stains.
The toddler cries even louder.
I whimper.
God, there’s food everywhere. On his shoes. On his face. Behind his ears!
I look up to see everyone at the tables nearby, staring at us.
Shiiit.
Then right on cue, two hands loom and grab the boy under his armpits. I glance up. A plump woman is hoisting him to her side.
“Aunty, I’m so sorry.” I’m so traumatized my words come out all jumbled. “It was an accident. L-l-let me dry for the pay cleaning. Please forgive me.”
I swallow as I prepare for a series of curses to come thrashing my way, but instead, the woman yells at the boy.
“Next time you won’t run off, ehn.”
She kisses her teeth and without batting an eyelid at me, she struts away.
Well, that’s African parenting for you. The child is always in the wrong. Even if a clumsy woman drops a whole plate of food on their head.
Shakily, I clamber to my feet. And then—crap—I duck down. What if Vanessa and Alex saw everything? Even worse, what if they’re laughing at me?
I hover behind the table, slowing rising to take a peep.
And that’s when I feel a tap.
“Jesus, Derek.” I put my hand to my chest. He has his hand on my shoulder and he’s looking at me as though to say, Why are you on the floor? To be fair, nearly everyone around us is looking at me like that.
“You need a hand?”
As loudly as I can, I hiss, “No, I can’t get up.”
Derek laughs. “Well, in that case.” He pulls at his trousers and crouches to my level.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I ask, as though he isn’t doing exactly what I’ve been doing for the past two minutes.
“I get it. You’re embarrassed. And Yinka, that’s okay. But now”—he smiles—“you don’t have to be, because I’m on the floor with you.”
I glance down. Derek is too nice. I wish he wasn’t. It makes declining his advances twice as hard.
Above my head, an African aunty shouts, “Excuse me! You are blocking the way!”
“You didn’t have to, Derek,” I say, tucking my legs in further so the aunty can pass. She kisses her teeth and I think I hear her say, “Dutty people.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I add with a resigned sigh. “I should have allowed you to help me with my plates earlier.”
“I’ve been there. Don’t worry.” Derek shrugs. “Remember what happened at the engagement party?”
I frown.
“I spilled a bottle of Coke down my trousers.”
“Oh, yeah, I was wondering what happened.” I snort, remembering his suspiciously drenched combats. Then as we laugh, I suddenly realize how this must look—classic meet-cute moment. Not that we’re having a moment, of course.
“We should probably get up,” I suggest, already clambering to my feet. I pretend not to see Derek offering a hand. Then he pulls a nearby chair out—ironically, the same chair that got me into all this mess—and helps me into it like I’m an elderly woman.
“Stay here,” he tells me. “I’ll fix you another plate.” I open my mouth. “No objections. Let me help you.”
I nod. Derek gives me a thumbs-up and scurries away. I lift my eyes. Every single aunty and uncle on the table is looking at me.
“Make sure you wash your hands,” one says.
“He’s a nice man,” another says.
“Next time, face where you’re going, ehn.”
Then suddenly, my brain snaps like an elastic band. Alex! I whisk my head in the direction of where I saw them last.
Nothing’s changed. They’re still at the back table, Vanessa nattering away, Alex nodding every so often. Then they laugh, and he throws his head back. As if my heart couldn’t sink any lower, Vanessa slaps him on the bicep and laughs again. I get a horrible feeling of déjà vu, as though I’m watching Femi and Latoya again.
How could you be so stupid? a voice tells me. How could you think someone as hot as Alex could like someone as dark and skinny as you? You don’t stand a chance.
Without a second thought, I push my chair back, staggering like a drunk to my feet. Then as fast as my trembling knees can carry me, I dash out of the restaurant.
I am who I say I am
“I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it.”
I throw my duvet over my head, the memory of Alex and Vanessa taunting me. After I fled the restaurant, I drove straight home and told Nana everything—Vanessa, Derek, and the epic plate disaster.
“For goodness’ sake.” Nana wrenches the duvet away. “Vanessa is twenty-one. Twenty-one! Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by a girl who was born after the Spice Girls.”
“But Vanessa is so pretty,” I whine. “And she’s light-skinned. And curvy. Nana, you should see her now. She’s practically a mini-Beyoncé. Tell me, what man in their right mind would turn down a mini-Beyoncé?”
Nana shakes her head. “So you telling me, yeah, that you’re not pretty enough, huh? That being dark and skinny is not beautiful? Yinka, I’m also dark and skinny and I think I’m hot.”
I twist my body to face the wall. “I’m not saying I’m ugly,” I reply, and the word feels like thorns in my mouth. “It’s just . . . you know how it is. Men, they have a particular type. Long hair, fair-skinned. Curvy. How often do you see women who look like us?”
“So that’s it, then?” Nana sits beside me on my bed. “You’re going to give up because you feel insecure?”
“You didn’t see them together!” I protest, and I pull the duvet over my head again. “I bet they didn’t even notice that I’d left.”
Nana lets out a resigned sigh. “Girl, you need to love yourself.” When she says this, a lump the size of a rock fills my throat.
“I do love myself,” I mumble feebly. Well, at least, I think I do. Maybe some days less so than others. I close my eyes for a moment, until suddenly, I’m overcome by a flash of anger.
I scramble to sit up. “I blame Femi. If he hadn’t shown up at Rachel’s engagement, then I wouldn’t have felt compelled to meet Alex. Do you know who else I blame? Ola. God, I shouldn’t have allowed her to get into my head.”
Nana puts a firm hand on my arm and looks me straight in the eye. Then she shuffles around so that her back is facing me, while holding up her locs.
“What does my tattoo say?” she says in her teacher-Nana voice.
Without needing to read it, I say, “I am who I say I am.”
“You’re what?” She pretends not to hear me.