“Please do, Yinka. For your own sake.”
But I still haven’t. And since I heard that I didn’t get the Oscar Larsson job, Nana seems to be giving me a break. But she’s also clearly not forgiven me.
I sidle closer to her. The music is so deafening that I’m going to have to speak right in her ear.
“How’s the website going?”
She turns from the throng. There are a lot of comically drunk people on the dance floor who suddenly think they can bust a move.
“Great,” she says brightly. “Alex is good at what he does. I’m not going to give too much away, though. You’ll see the website when it’s done.”
I nod in time with the music, which is again another pop song. Sigh.
“And how’s the working relationship?” I ask after a tentative pause. I mean it genuinely—I don’t care about Alex any more. He’s in the past.
Nana shrugs. “It’s not awkward, if that’s what you’re hinting at. It’s all strictly profesh. Althooough, he does ask about you from time to time.”
I roll my eyes.
True to his word, Alex invited me to his place for lunch, the Sunday after Valentine’s Day. Amicably, I declined his offer. I told him that I was now attending a local church, shorter commute and all that. Still, he continued to WhatsApp me. And because I didn’t want him to get suspicious, I continued to reply. But when he asked me out for a drink the next Friday, I knew I had to break contact. So I sent him a voice note explaining that I was too busy and stressed with job hunting to do anything at the moment, and that I’ll let him know when I’m free again.
“We missed you yesterday,” says Nana, grabbing the wheel of our conversation. In response to my frown, she clarifies. “Rachel’s bridal meeting. How come you couldn’t make it? Anything to do with your little white lie?”
“No! I had a headache.”
Nana doesn’t even try to hide rolling her eyes. “Rachel kept asking me about the latest with you and Alex—”
“What did you say?” My voice is so loud that it actually causes a passing man to look over his shoulder.
“I told them that we’ve both been so busy, that we haven’t had a chance to catch up—”
“And what did Ola say?”
Nana folds her arms. “She didn’t say anything. So you can stop looking at me like a fox caught in broad daylight. Honestly, Yinka, you can’t avoid the girls forever. Rachel’s bridal shower is this Saturday!”
To my relief, Rihanna’s “Umbrella” starts playing—well, a weird remix version.
“Ooh, this is our cue.” I pull Nana’s arm. And despite her objections, I prod her along to the sweaty dance floor.
Weave out
FRIDAY
History Ctrl+H
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Good excuses for not going to a bridal shower—Reddit
“How’re things going between you and Alex?” says Aunty Blessing as she hacks a blade at a piece of thread. It’s déjà vu: once again, I’m sitting on the floor between my Aunty’s legs in her living room, only this time, she’s taking out my weave. “The last I heard, you said my advice worked and he was coming round to yours for lunch. I don’t want to pry, but you never got back to me when I texted you about it.”
“Yeah, well, things didn’t work out,” I reply. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about it?”
“O-kaaay.” Silence fills the room, save for the blade that she’s sawing against the thread. “Talking of other things, a few of my contacts have come through. They’ve agreed to sponsor Nana’s fashion show. Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Yeah, Nana told me yesterday. Thanks again, Aunty.”
More silence.
Aunty Blessing clears her throat. “Any update on the job front?”
“Nope.” I emphasize the p. “No update since the wave of rejections I told you about. The recruitment agencies have gone quiet on me too.”
“Have you chased them up?”
“One has gone on holiday. But yes, I’ve chased the others. Sometimes even twice a week.”
“Hmm.” Aunty Blessing tilts my head. “This is so strange. I thought with Godfrey on your CV, you would have got a job by now. Have you asked the interviewers for feedback?”
I let out a laugh. “Oh, yes, I’ve asked. Apparently there just happens to always be someone with more experience than me. I’m always thiiis close but never get it.”
Aunty Blessing drops a weft of tattered weave onto my lap. It’s lost its sheen. I dispose of it into a plastic bag, trying hard not to remember how much I spent on it.
“Well, you know what they say,” she says, hacking at another thread.
“What, Black people have to work twice as hard?”
“No, well yes, but that’s not what I was going to say.” There’s a pause. “What I was trying to hint at is . . . maybe these rejections are happening for a reason. Are you sure you want to stick with the investment banking sector?”
“Aunty, I’m not interested in working for a charity.”
“I didn’t say it had to be a charity. Just, maybe, a different sector.” I feel the breath she puffs out on the back of my neck. “Now what does your mum think of all this?”
“What do you mean?” I’m praying that my wobbly voice doesn’t give me away.
“You not having a job yet,” she clarifies. “I imagine she’s quite worried.”
“Um . . . yeah,” I say, grimacing. That’s not exactly a lie—she’s always worried about me.
I run a finger along my hair, touching the cornrows free from the weave. It’s going to be so strange seeing my face with my short, kinky hair again.
“Yinka?”
Oh, no. Here it comes.
“I didn’t want to offer if you’d decided to change sector, but I recently met a man who works for a boutique investment bank. Maybe I can ask him to pull a few strings?”
“Oh, would you?” I’m so excited I whip my head around.
“Of course,” she says with a gentle smile. “I can’t remember what his role is or the name of the bank for that matter, but I do know he’s very senior. His name is Terry Matthews. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a word. In fact”—she rises to her feet—“I’ll text him now.”
I watch her bare feet patter over to the coffee table where her phone has been charging. She picks it up and types quickly. There’s a strange smile on her face—one usually reserved for when you text a friend a witty comment or a funny meme.
Then something hits me. It’s after nine. Quite late, in my opinion, to be texting someone you have a business relationship with. Unless you don’t have a business relationship with them.
“Aunty”—I scratch my itchy scalp, doing my best to quell a growing smile—“sorry, how did you say you know Terry?” and knowing that she hasn’t.
“Oh, at a networking event,” she says coolly. “We exchanged business cards and kept in touch.” She sets her phone back on the table, then without looking at me, returns to the sofa where she adjusts my head between her legs until she’s comfortable.
Mmhmm. I smile broadly as she resumes. Who is she trying to fool?
After Aunty Blessing finishes taking my weave out, I stand in front of her bamboo mirror, tugging at my wispy dead ends, which are entangled with dandruff and old hair grease.
“I think my hairline has receded,” I whimper. “Look.” I press down my unruly hair and shove my forehead under her nose.
“You’re just being paranoid.” She laughs and flaps me away.
My protest is curtailed by my vibrating phone. In unison, we look down at the sofa.
It’s Mum.
“I’ll call her back later,” I say at the same time that Aunty Blessing picks it up.
“Aunty—”
My mouth falls open as she answers it.
“Hello, Tolu. It’s Blessing—Oh, wow! Yinka! Kemi’s having the baby!”
This is your mess, not mine