“So, how’re things?” I ask, but honestly, I’m desperate for Kemi to be on her way. I don’t want her around when Alex comes over. She would definitely suss out why I got my hair done.
“Urgh. Teaching this week was stressful.” She pulls her face. “Seriously. I can’t wait to go on mat leave. I feel like such an elephant when I stand in front of my class.”
“Baby, don’t say that about yourself.” Uche drapes an arm over Kemi’s shoulder. “You’re doing great. I told you. You’re beautiful.” He pulls her into him and kisses the top of her head. My heart tugs a little. It’s been a long time since a man called me beautiful.
Suddenly, my eye catches a glimpse of a bright blonde weave in the moving crowd.
Crap. It’s Vanessa, and she’s with Derek. I want to duck down, but my body seems to have seized up. No, no. Please don’t see me. Not now.
“Yinka!” I hear Kemi yell. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry, I’m desperate for the toilet.”
“Oh. You should have said so. Well, let me not hold you up.” She leans forward and we hug.
“But let’s catch up soon, yeah,” she says. “You hardly come round any more.”
“What are you doing Wednesday evening?” I ask, remembering I need to ask her for a few Nollywood recommendations. “Mind if I come over?”
“Sure.” Kemi gives me a wide smile. “I should be home by six, so any time after is fine.”
“And we can show you the nursery,” says Uche, giving me a hug.
“Oh, yes, the nursery,” Kemi says. “We’ve painted it yellow.”
I have a vague memory of her telling me that they were buying paint.
“Mum chose the color,” she gushes. “Didn’t she, Uche?” He nods.
Mum. Now I remember why I didn’t tag along.
“Well, I can’t wait to see it,” I say, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Oh, sorry. You need to go.” Kemi shoos me away with her hands.
I bustle my way toward the toilets—the opposite direction to where I’m supposed to meet Alex.
And that’s when I see him.
I look quickly over my shoulder. Thankfully, Kemi is nearing the exit. Alex and I wade through the crowd and stand by the wall together.
“Someone looks nice,” he says, his lips lifting a little.
A cage of butterflies opens in my stomach. Did he—did he just compliment me? Yes, yes, yes! I knew my plan was going to work. God, I’m a genius.
“Thanks.” I shrug. “You look nice too.” I reach out and actually touch his arm.
Alex looks down at himself as though he needs a reminder of what he’s wearing today: a denim shirt, skinny jeans and sandy boots.
“I try.” He gives a tiny shrug.
No, trust me, you deliver, I think to myself.
“Oh, and here you go.” He proffers a large Selfridges bag at me with my jacket bundled neatly inside.
“Aww, thanks,” I say.
“Apologies again,” he says sheepishly.
“No, don’t worry.” I flap a hand. “The tenner is still in my pocket, right?”
Alex looks confused. I burst out laughing.
“Never mind. Bad joke. Soo, um, want to grab lunch? I promise not to ghost you this time, lol.”
“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”
The smile on my face falters.
“How come?” I ask.
“Got plans,” he replies unhelpfully. “Actually . . . If you’re not in a rush, I want to introduce you to someone.”
Without giving me the chance to ask, “Who?” he leads me back into the auditorium and down a row of chairs.
“Mum,” he says, stopping in the middle. He places a hand on the shoulder of a woman sitting in the row ahead.
Hold up. He wants to introduce me to his mum?
I lower my Selfridges bag to the chair beside me.
“Mum,” he repeats, smiling. “This is Yinka.”
She turns her head, then scampers to her feet like you would when you bump into an old friend.
“Ahh, Yinka!”
“Hello, Aunty.” I go to bend my knees but Alex’s mum hugs me over the chair between us. I feel a rush of affection as she squeezes me. Hey, I can’t believe that out of all the daydreams I’ve had, I haven’t yet thought about what Alex’s mum would be like. Considering how in touch Alex is with his Nigerian roots, I would have thought she would be like my mum.
But Alex’s mum seems so . . . so . . . Western. For starters, she’s hugging me as though we’re mates. And my mum would never be caught in leather trousers. And she has a platinum buzz haircut! Wait, is that an authentic British accent I’ve just heard?
Alex’s mum draws back and slides her hands down my arms. I can now see her face in its entirety, and my God, she’s stunning. Her complexion is a terra-cotta brown like the outside of a garden pot. And her teeth are so sparkly as though she’s never eaten chocolate in her life. And her skin! It is true: Black don’t crack.
“So, this is Yinka,” she says, squeezing my elbows.
Wait, hold on a sec. Has Alex been talking to his mum about me?
I grin and nod.
“I love your dress!” She lifts my hands. Thank God, I shaved my armpits. “It’s absolutely gorgeous,” she says with a drawl.
Alex nods. “Now you look like a proper Naija girl.”
I pull a face at him.
“Oh, thank you, Aunty,” I say, nearly forgetting my manners.
“Where did you get it from?” she asks, lowering my hands.
“Actually, my best friend made it. She’s a fashion designer.”
“Shame I’m not your size.” She laughs and pats her stomach. Which, by the way, is impressively toned for any woman, let alone a woman her age.
“Oh, come on, Mum.” Alex nudges her a little. “I’m sure you’d look just as good.”
Good! I’m practically swaying. He’s attracted to me. My new makeover is working.
“Now, tell me, Yinka.” Alex’s mum raises a lightly penciled brow. “Has Kehinde started raiding your fridge yet?”
Who’s Kehinde? I nearly say before realizing (thankfully) that Kehinde is Alex’s Nigerian name. It’s part of his Insta handle. Name. Whatever. “Because I tell you something,” she continues, “this boy here likes to eat. And when I say eat, I mean eat.” I chuckle.
“No, Aunty.” I’m snuffling with laughter. “Alex hasn’t raided my fridge . . . yet.”
I look up at Alex, who’s laughing too. Then he kisses his teeth. “Mum, please. Yinka doesn’t even know how to cook Nigerian food. Do you know that this girl lives on takeaways?”
I gasp, then slap Alex across the arm. Ooh. “Aunty, don’t listen to him,” I say after being temporarily distracted by his muscles. “He’s lying.”
“Oh, there’s no shame, sweetheart. But don’t overdo it, okay? Otherwise, you’ll pay the price when you get to my age.”
“Aunty, please, don’t mind him. In fact”—I feel myself stand tall—“Yesterday, for dinner, I made myself pounded yam.”
Alex scoffs. “Come on. Pounded yam is easy.”
I giggle nervously as I recall some of my earlier attempts.
“Can you even make proper Nigerian food?” Alex emphasizes the word by slapping the back of his hand, twice. “And by proper, I mean proper. You know, like moin-moin, pepper soup, ?gb?n?.”
I stall. Okay, I’m familiar with the first dish, which is a staple savory pudding made out of peeled brown beans and ground peppers and served at Nigerian parties. The second one, again, I’m familiar with, though I can’t say I can take the heat. But the third one. Ogbo-what? That one’s for Google.
“All right, that’s enough,” his mum intervenes. “I’m sure Yinka is a great cook.” Then to me, she says, “I don’t even know how to cook half those things,” and we share a light-hearted laugh. I think I love her.
Then just as the moment is about to pass, I remember the conversation that I had with Aunty Blessing yesterday: So what if the woman makes the first move.
“Well, to settle this”—I fold my arms and look directly at him—“how about after church one Sunday, we have lunch at mine?”
The words vomit out of me. If he says no, I will die of embarrassment. But to my surprise, Alex says, “Okay. In that case, why don’t we do next Sunday?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say quickly, before he changes his mind. “Let me just put it in my calendar.” I reach into my bag and look up. Alex’s mum has put a hand on my forearm.