“It’s supposed to be pounded yam.” I sigh, and force another scoop into my mouth.
Nana laughs. And I mean, proper laughs so hard that I see her fillings.
“What happened to pizza and takeaways?” She pulls out her phone and takes a snap of my dish.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to share it on my Insta Stories.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Chill out, girl. I’m joking. I can’t promise you that I won’t use it for future bribing purposes, however.” She lowers herself onto the opposite stool and I narrow my eyes at her. “Anyway, how was your day?” she says.
“Productive.” I cleanse my palate with some orange juice. “Although, I still need to do more research into the company, I think. And also—”
I stop. Is “Operation Wedding Date” something I want to share with Nana?
No. I push my plate to one side. She won’t get it. I could do without the lecture too.
Duh yuh waah your ier dun?
TUESDAY
Peckham Beauty Afro-Caribbean Hair & Cosmetics
26 Peckham Rye Lane
Tuesday 2 February
7.03 p.m.
x 2 Yaki 1B 16-inch Human Hair ￡57.98
x 2 X-pressions Kanekalon braiding hair ￡3.50
Professional Hair Extensions Thread ￡0.99
Sleek True Color Lip Gloss ￡4.99
Jasmine’s Black Lengthening Mascara ￡3.00
Luster’s Pink Original Hairspray ￡5.49
Total ￡75.95
I stroll from the cashier, receipt in hand, and blink. Then I blink again.
Seventy-five quid!!!
How the heck did I just spend over seventy-five quid on hair and makeup? I kiss my teeth.
I really can’t afford to spend money willy-nilly right now. Not when I don’t have a job.
I swivel around, marching back to join the queue, but it now seems to have doubled in length. Ah well. It’s an investment in my future. I shove the receipt into my pocket and walk down the aisle to find JoBrian. I really didn’t want them to come with me to the hair shop, and specifically told them that we should meet at seven fifteen at Costa. But en route from Peckham Rye station, I saw them across the road, and although I tried to walk away and pretend I hadn’t seen them, they began to call my name as though I was a celebrity. Now, here I am, hurrying down the wigs aisle because Brian has decided to try on a pixie one.
“Yinka, this place is like Ikea,” he cries. “But . . . for hair!”
“Put it back,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder, worried we might get chucked out. The South Asian man from behind the counter is glaring at us.
“So, what did you get then?” Joanna noses into my plastic bag.
“Just some hair extensions,” I reply, not sure Joanna would get it if I said, “Some weave.” She’d probably think I was going medieval and trying to make a loom.
“We good to go?” Brian has returned the wig to its rightful owner—a yellow mannequin with the tiniest nose.
I look into my bag again. “Ooh, I forgot to buy a hairnet. One sec.”
I wander down the aisle filled with skincare products. I see shea butter and cocoa butter and aloe vera and— I stop.
Lightening creams.
My eyes widen. And they’re not even tucked away or hidden on the bottom shelf. They’re out in the open, lots of them in every form—cream, soap, lotion, serum. Sporting words such as “bright” and “fair,” and on one particular product, “white.”
My jaw clenches, and I feel my fingernails dig into my palms.
“Let’s go,” I tell JoBrian after I return to the wigs aisle. Brian is holding up another mannequin and pretending to be a ventriloquist.
“Did you get the hairnet already?” Joanna asks.
I shake my head. “The queue was too long.” I check my phone and sigh when I see the text from Nana. “Sorry, guys, my best friend locked herself out. She’s the one who’s living with me for the moment. She’s waiting for us at Costa.”
As soon as we leave the hair shop, we bump straight into a woman wearing leggings and the biggest gold earrings I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Duh yuh waah your ier dun?” she asks in strong patois. I shake my head.
Barely three steps later, I’m confronted with the same question.
“No, thank you, Aunty,” I tell her, bending my knees a little, then rushing off.
“Wait, is that your aunty?” Joanna says after she catches up, raising her voice over the loud sounds of plucked chickens getting butchered.
“Jo, every Black woman in Peckham is my aunty,” I tell her, and they both laugh.
* * *
—
It’s the first time that I’ve entered the Costa in Peckham, but I might as well have entered the one in Shoreditch. Every corner, hipsters in their oversized garments and vintage attire are either sitting behind their MacBooks or glued to their phones.
Nana waves. She’s perched in the corner on a red sofa flanked by two armchairs. This should be interesting. My two “worlds” have never collided before.
I wave back, then signal “one sec.” We grab our drinks, and I treat myself to a hot chocolate with marshmallows.
“JoBrian, this is Nana. Nana, this is Joanna and Brian.” I gesture from one to the other like I’m at a formal interview . . . “Best friend. Former co-workers.”
The three of them exchange polite hellos. I take the space next to Nana, while JoBrian take the armchairs.
“What did you get?” Nana snatches my plastic bag, and despite my objection, she noses inside. “Wait, is this for you?” she says as I snatch the exposed packets of hair before shoving them into the bag. “Yinka, since when did you start wearing weave?”
“Well.” I shrug. “There’s a first time for everything.” I avoid Nana’s gaze and reach for my hot chocolate and blow over it. After the mini-lecture she gave me on self-love the other day, I don’t think she’ll be too impressed with my over-the-top plan to transform myself.
“Anyway,” I nod to JoBrian across the low wooden table. “How are your drinks?”
They look at each other, confused. Brian answers first.
“Um, well. My one tastes like coffee.”
“And my one tastes like cappuccino,” Joanna says.
“And mine,” Nana whispers, “peppermint.”
The three of them laugh.
I pull a face. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
In unison, we all sip our drinks. I look between them. Wait, I thought I’d broken the ice?
“So Nana,” Brian says finally. He puts down his coffee and crosses his legs. “What do you do?”
* * *
—
I can’t believe this is going so well! My work friends getting on with my best friend. My life has always been so compartmentalized, so it’s actually nice to see some blend.
We’ve all been chatting for half an hour or so when Nana mentions her plans to run a fashion show in June. Joanna and Brian immediately flood her with excited questions.
“Have you thought about inviting fashion vloggers?” asks Joanna after Nana showed them her Insta page. “YouTube influencers. Instagram models. You know, those kinds of people?”
“Ooh, that’s a good point.” Nana is already taking notes on her phone. “I would love to get someone like Patricia Bright to attend.”
“You should send her some of your designs,” Joanna suggests. “Ask her whether she can do a vlog on them. Her platform is huge.”
“Oh my gosh. Why didn’t I think of that?” Nana is now typing furiously.
Joanna dusts her shoulder and says, “PR queen.”
“Sidenote, do you have a venue yet?” asks Brian, wiping his glasses lens against his shirt.
“I’m looking at this events hall in Old Street,” replies Nana. “Got a recce this Thursday. Oh, that reminds me. Yinka, you free to tag along? Appointment is at six. I’ll invite the girls too.”
“Sure. Though my interview is at four. But I should be able to make it.”
For the next ten minutes, Joanna offers Nana more PR tips, while Brian and I look up some other vloggers she could invite. The three exchange numbers—Joanna says she’s happy to put together a press release for Nana ahead of the show. Brian just wants front row seats.
“Ooh. Before I forget.” Joanna puts down her cappuccino. “Any of you fancy going to Coal Rooms this Saturday?”