His patois tickles my funny bone, and despite myself, I laugh.
“Drumstick it is, then.” The man smiles as he enters my order into the till.
I give the man a fiver and he hands me my change. “Two minutes,” he says before disappearing off inside.
“So”—Donovan leans against the wall where all the hygiene certificates are—“you helping out at the outreach tonight?”
I look up from my purse to see the corners of his brown lips lifted to reveal white teeth.
“Um, no,” I say, and his lips sag. And because I feel bad for not volunteering, I quickly add, “I have a job interview to prepare for.”
“Oh, you’ve already got another one?”
“Well, it’s with the same bank. But yeah, I’ve got another interview.” I grin. “Girl got through to the second round.”
I wait for Donovan to say, “Congratulations,” or to laugh at my attempt to speak like him. Instead, he remains poker. “So you’re really sticking to the banking sector, huh?”
“Donovan. Honestly. What is it to you?”
He shakes his head. “Yinka, remember what I said, yeah. Midlife crisis is a serious ting. You know what I’m saying?”
I roll my eyes.
“Your order, sir. Five wings and chips.” The man sets a box down in front of Donovan, then disappears again.
“Cheers, boss,” Donovan says, and he reaches for a napkin. Then after flicking the box open, he yells, “Yo, bossman. You got any burger sauce?”
“Oh my gosh. I love burger sauce.”
Donovan lifts his head. “It’s the shit, right?” he says, sprinkling two sachets of pepper all over his chips. “I mean, you can’t order chicken and chips and not have it with burger sauce. It’s like . . . I dunno, having a burrito without chipotle.”
“Or Nando’s without peri-peri.”
“Yeah, yeah!” His eyes light up.
Just as Donovan stuffs a chip into his mouth, the man behind the counter returns with a squeezy bottle of burger sauce.
“Boss, you should keep this on the counter, yeah,” says Donovan, and he makes a grab for the bottle before squeezing it for a good minute.
Seconds later, the man returns with my box of chicken and chips. Donovan does the honors and puts on the burger sauce.
“A bit more,” I prod as I watch splats of yellow sauce burst out. “Don’t be stingy now.”
Donovan laughs. “You gonna eat your takeaway when you get home?” he asks as I shove a chip in my mouth. Mmm. Heaven.
“Actually, I was going to eat it at the station,” I admit. “Just before getting on my train.”
Donovan checks his phone. “Well, I’ve got twenty minutes before the outreach starts and I’m gonna eat my wings in the park, so . . .”
I laugh. “So you can chew my ear off again.”
Suddenly, he places his hands on my shoulders. The intensity of his gaze makes the back of my neck warm.
“I was out of line last Wednesday. I should have respected your wishes. Hand on heart, I’m sorry.”
I stare at him, stunned by his apparent sincerity. I’m waiting for him to laugh. But he doesn’t.
“Okay, um, apology accepted,” I say, finding my words. “Fine, I’ll keep you company.” I say this in a huff but my twisted lips don’t quite match the attitude I’m trying to give off.
“Hey, don’t act as if you’re doing me a favor.” Donovan nicks one of my chips.
I scowl at him. “Oi! You’ve got your own!”
“I’m cool with hanging out with the pigeons, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Donovan gives the man behind the counter a fist bump, then we leave.
* * *
—
It’s only when we’ve arrived at the park and pitched up on a suspicious-looking bench that I realize I have eaten all of my chips. En route, Donovan and I reminisced about our time in Peru, and I couldn’t help but notice that he laughed at all of my jokes. Even when I was being plain lame.
There’s a slight pause while we continue to eat, which is filled by the sound of a police siren in the distance. I tap my heel on the concrete pathway that separates the stretch of unkempt grass on either side. The air has that wet dog smell, and the wind has robbed every leaf from the trees. I swear, I hate London during the winter.
“I like your hoody.” I seal the takeaway box—I’ll have my chicken at home. According to Nana, I chew very loudly when I eat fried chicken. Thanks to her I’m now self-conscious about eating it in public.
Working his way through a hot-wing, Donovan looks down at his front—at the large print of a Black man with an impressive high-top. “You like his music?” he says.
“Oh, he’s a musician?”
Donovan shakes his head. “C’mon, Yinka. Big Daddy Kane. He’s a hip hop legend. I swear, your hip hop knowledge is ter-ri-ble. I need to educate you, one of these days.”
I shrug.
Donovan glances down and I follow his gaze to see two frowzy-looking pigeons circling our bench. He rips off a bit of skin from his wing and throws it into the grass. Like two dogs playing fetch, the birds scuttle after it.
I shudder. “Urgh. I’ll never understand why God made pigeons—”
I freeze. Oh, no. I really don’t want another debate.
Donovan laughs. “You can say the G-word, you know. Once upon a time, man believed in Him too.”
“Who, you?”
Donovan nods. “Brought up in a Christian home, innit.” He smiles. “You’re not the only one who knows the Bible.”
I watch him as he tears another piece from his hot-wing, his two new friends waiting patiently by his feet. He throws it even further and the birds make another frantic dash.
I shift slightly. I have to ask. “What happened?” Then quickly, I add, “Only if you want to talk about it, of course.”
Turns out, Donovan and I can talk about theology without either one of us getting prickly. With the birds returning every so often for another scrap, he told me about his mum, who was diagnosed with lupus when he was in his late teens. About her desire to be healed and the role her church played in making her believe that she soon would be. And about the ridiculous amount of money she would give as a tithe offering every Sunday in the hope of receiving her miraculous healing. She didn’t have much, yet she gave and gave and gave and received nothing back.
While Donovan explained his withdrawal from his faith, I listened, never once interrupting. It was actually quite refreshing to see this side of him and to see him lower his guard a little. For the first time, I feel like I saw him. The real him. The man behind all the swagger.
“Wow, thank you for sharing all that.” I blow out my cheeks.
“So is this the bit where you gonna try and convert me, yeah?” Donovan smiles, but I see it too late.
“No, no. Of course not . . . I don’t believe in conversions.”
“No?” He raises a brow.
I shoot him a smile. “In my opinion, faith”—I press a hand on my chest—“is something that starts in here. You can’t force the heart to believe what it doesn’t want to.”
Donovan nods slowly. “That’s pretty deep, I give you that.” He pauses. “Thank you . . . for listening. And for respecting my decision. I’ve never had that before.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry for going hard on you, all those years ago.”
I flap my hand. “We were young and you were immature.”
We both laugh.
“So,” Donovan says suddenly, and I turn to him. “Why do you believe in God?”
I laugh a little, then tilt my head as I ponder.
“Reassurance, I guess,” I say finally. “Reassurance that I’m not alone. That despite all the bullshit life can throw sometimes, I have someone looking out for me, fighting in my corner and giving me everything that I need to get through. Don’t get me wrong, I too have moments when I wave my fist at God. But I guess, I get a sense of . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . . inner peace, knowing that I don’t have to figure life out on my own, if that makes any sense at all? I dunno, I see God as a . . . friend.”
Donovan rubs his chin. Dare I say, he looks slightly impressed. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “I can respect that.” He laughs.