Kemi looks over at my phone. “àgbélébù mí,” she says effortlessly. “I think it means my cross. Or my burden. I have to admit, I’m a bit rusty.”
I remember when Kemi was a teen, she would sit right by Mum’s feet while Mum sat on the sofa and binged on Nollywood movies. I guess it made sense given her passion for acting, but I just never saw the lure. Besides, I found Nollywood films way too long for my patience. They always ended on a cliffhanger too, and then there was always a part two, three and four. And most times, the film graphics were so unrealistic, they were laughable.
Kemi shrugs. “I’m not fluent, but I can get by. The ones that I used to watch with Mum were the proper villagey types. You know, the ones with witch doctors and masquerades.”
I shudder. “I don’t know how you weren’t scared.”
Kemi laughs. “The CGI was terrible—it made good comedy. How come all of a sudden you’re so interested in learning Yoruba anyway?”
In a Nigerian accent, I reply, “Ah, ah! Why not now?”
Kemi giggles. “Yinka, you’re something else. You’ll stay for dinner?”
“Sure.”
Moments like these remind me of the old days. Kemi and I would chat for aaages before realizing that we still needed to make dinner. I help her climb to her feet, rubbing her shoulders from behind as she leads the way to the kitchen. “So, what’s on the menu?” I ask. God, I hope she’s not making pounded yam.
“Jollof rice.” She beams. “Or do you think Mum will mind if we have fajitas?”
“Mum? Mum’s coming round for dinner?”
Kemi opens the fridge. “Sure is.” She rummages out lettuce, cucumber, a pack of tomatoes and an avocado. “With the baby coming—you know, with all the boring stuff I need to get done before then—and Mum only being ten minutes away, she comes round for dinner more often.”
Kemi sets down the vegetables on the counter. I grab the chopping board behind the dish rack.
Great. I really don’t want to stay if Mum’s going to be around. She’ll only ask me about Alex, and there’s no way I’m filling her in about our lunch date. Then she’ll inquire about work and I still don’t fancy telling her that I’ve been made redundant, regardless of Aunty Blessing’s conscience.
“Jollof or fajitas?” Kemi interrupts my anxious thoughts.
“Jollof,” I reply, and grab a chopping knife.
“Good choice. I made it last night.”
While Kemi heats up the rice, I chop away at the vegetables. “Here. Let me help you with that.” She beckons at the avocado in my hand, which I have to admit, I’ve been doing a bad job of dicing.
I head to the sink and wash my hands, and feel a prickle of irritation as I think back to when Donovan would take the mick out of my avocado-chopping skills.
“You didn’t go to work today?” Kemi says as she cleans her hands with a kitchen towel.
My eyes pop. Wait, does she—
Kemi nods to my top.
I look down. Ah, yes. Wonder Woman.
“I was surprised that you got here bang at six . . .” she says. “Well, you deserve the odd day off, you work too hard. Speaking of work, we haven’t celebrated your promotion yet. Hey, why don’t you grab a bottle from the wine rack. Obviously, I won’t be drinking, but Uche should be home from work soon—”
“I didn’t get a promotion.”
Kemi leans back against the counter, then blinks, confused. “What?”
I sigh. “The truth is . . . I was actually made redundant.”
Kemi covers her mouth.
“Don’t worry.” I hold up my hands. “I’m confident that I’ll get a job soon. Come on, I’ve got eight years’ experience. And I’ve already had an interview. But still, I’d appreciate your prayers.”
“Of course,” Kemi says as though finding her breath. “When did all this happen? Does Mum know—”
“No,” I say before she can even finish her sentence. “Mum still thinks I got a promotion.” I wince. “Please don’t say anything to her. You know what she’s like.”
Kemi puts a hand to her chest. “Aww, sis. You should have told me.” She walks over and bundles me in a hug, leaving a slight gap to accommodate for her large bump. She buries her chin into my shoulder.
“Kemi, I’m not dying, you know.” I wiggle out of her grasp, and I see her holding back the worry. Though I don’t know if it’s worry about me, or about what Mum would say.
“Anyway, maybe it’s best not to stay for dinner if Mum’s coming. I don’t want her asking any questions.”
“Sure, sure. I understand.” She walks me to the door. “Yinka—”
“I meant what I said earlier.” I quickly grab my jacket hanging over the banister. “Before the baby comes, I’ll organize something for us to do together. It will be like old times.”
“Only I’m fatter now,” she laughs, clearly deciding not to risk nagging me. “But yeah, just let me know when you’re free.”
“Will do.” I smile. I open the door and step outside. “Oh, and ó dàbò?.” I wave.
Kemi chuckles. “See. You’ll be fluent in no time.”
After a swift look both ways, I power walk down the street, praying that I do not bump into Mum.
* * *
—
A date and a second job interview, all in a couple of days,” says Joanna on the phone. I’m approaching Peckham high street, passing another Black barber’s shop. “You are on a roll. I’m so happy for you.”
“Aww, thanks, Jo,” I say as I step onto a pedestrian crossing. “Anyway, enough about me. How’s the job search going? Ooh, better yet, any updates on Tinder?”
“Still job hunting,” Joanna says, then I think I hear a smile in her voice as she says, “Buuut, I do have a date this Saturday.”
“Go, you!” I shout, and a few people at a nearby bus stop turn to look at me. “What’s his name? How old is he? How long have you been talking?”
“His name is Brandon.” Joanna is definitely grinning now. “Thirty-seven, and for about a week. Did I mention he’s a fireman?”
“A fireman? Tell me more. Have you told Brian? I bet he’s well excited.”
While Joanna fills me in on Brandon, how he looks (essentials first) and the chemistry they have, I spot a Chicken Cottage in the distance, and my stomach growls. I beeline toward it. As I push open the glass door, a waft of heat greets me, then the smell of fried chicken and chips. Nostalgia.
“Yes, darling, what can I get for you?” A man appears from behind the counter wearing a red polo T-shirt and a matching Fargo cap.
Joanna is still swooning over Brandon on the other end of the line.
I mouth to the man, “Sorry, one sec,” and I’m about to interrupt Joanna when a familiar voice calls my name.
I turn around.
“Wha gwan, sis?” Donovan is slouching in a chair by a small table. He pulls off his hood then smiles. “So, what, you stalking me now, yeah?”
Laws of attraction
“Donovan!”
“No, Brandon, Yinka,” I hear Joanna say through the phone. “Brandon.”
I shake my head. “Right. Sorry, Jo. Actually, do you mind if I call you back later? I’m out at the moment.”
I end the call. Donovan is now on his feet. “Well, bring it in then,” he says, spreading his arms wide for a hug.
I hold out a hand and stop him. “We are not on good terms.”
“Yinks, are you kidding me? I tried to apologize, but you walked away. Anyway, perhaps this is some sort of sign.”
“A sign?”
“You know, what’s that thingamajig called? Oh, yeah. Laws of attraction.” He shows those dimples. “Maybe that’s why I’m bumping into you again. To get a second chance.”
For some weird reason, my belly flutters like my insides are doing acrobatics. I really must stop with the yam.
“What can I get for you?” repeats the man from behind the counter.
I breathe out, welcoming the interruption, and glance up at the shiny menu screens above.
“Chicken and chips, please,” I say without missing a beat. “Ooh, for the chicken, can I have the drumstick?”
“Drumstick?” Donovan looks at me as though I’ve just asked for tofu. “Fam, get the thigh. The thigh has more chicken on it.”
“Err, excuse me.” I hold up my finger. “The drumstick has more skin. And everyone knows that the skin is the best part.”
“Fair enough.” Donovan gives in. “But you’ll nyam di drumstick quick, enuh.”