By the time Aunty Blessing and I arrive at King’s College Hospital, Mum has already christened the baby seven times: at one point, he was Olúwa?é?gun, then later, Olàlàbí, then intermittently, Chinedu, an Igbo name that Uche and Kemi picked. The area surrounding Kemi’s bed is packed, crammed with adoring visiting aunties sitting on chairs, which I’m still not sure are technically allowed to be removed from the waiting area. Aunty Debbie is standing at the foot of the bed, taking photos on behalf of Big Mama, who is happily chomping through her second packet of plantain crisps, content with admiring the baby from afar. I’m pretty sure we are causing a major fire hazard.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Uche perched on the opposite side, I cradle an arm around my sister as she looks adoringly at their creation. The baby is so fair-skinned and tufts of silky, black hair sprout from his crown. I can’t believe Kemi’s a mum. My baby sister, a mum. The same girl that I used to pick up from school and help with her homework. Now she has an entire family. And as her older sister, I feel helpless that I can’t offer her any advice. Just like when she was getting married, I’m useless. I didn’t even get round to organizing our catch-up.
“You birthed a human being,” I say, trying not to wallow in self-pity.
“I know!” Kemi says. “Sis, you should have seen me. I was screaming as if I was possessed or something.”
“Please. Abeg. You’re not possessed.” Mum comes back in and swoons for the hundredth time. In an attempt to find better phone reception, she stepped out into the hallway to call family back home in Lagos and tell them the good news. Despite that, all we have heard for the last ten minutes is, “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” and “Speak louder. I can’t hear you.”
“Uche was amazing.” Kemi presses her clammy head against her husband’s, and at this, Mum pats Uche’s shoulders. “My son here was as calm as a swam.”
“Swan, Mum,” I correct her. Kemi laughs and Uche thanks his mother-in-law. It’s a shame that neither of his parents got their visas in time. A new thought comes to me. “Mum, how was Daddy when you went into labor?”
Mum doesn’t even bother to think about it. “I can’t remember. Oya, everybody.” She addresses the room. “Everybody, let us pray. We have to give thanks to God.”
After Mum finishes an epic prayer—No weapon formed against the baby shall prosper—the midwife kindly asks that all visitors step outside so that she can show Kemi how to breastfeed the baby.
“I’ll give you a hand,” says Uche.
Big Mama cries, “Ah, what hand can you give her? Are you not a man?”
Everyone laughs, and leaves the ward as loud as they came in. Aunty Blessing and I are left to do the heavy lifting, and return all the chairs to the waiting area. There’s a handful of other visitors in the room, and now we’re all seated in our own small huddle while we wait for Kemi to finish feeding. Uche stayed in with her, despite Big Mama’s jokes.
“Thank God for His mercies.” Big Mama raises her palms skyward.
I shift my gaze from her scraggly toenails to see Mum frowning at me. My stomach tightens. Uh-oh. I hope she’s not going to bring up my job or ask me about Alex.
“Why did you go out with your hair like this, ehn?” she says, as though seeing me for the first time.
My insides relax.
“Tolu,” Aunty Debbie says, pronouncing Mum’s name like an English person and repeatedly tapping her on the knee. “You did it again. Earlier, you forgot to pray for Yinka.”
Insides clench.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re in public.”
This doesn’t deter Mum. “Ah! Yes! Funke, you’re right. Yinka, I’ll pray for you now.”
“Make it brief.” Aunty Blessing stashes her phone away.
I look around wearily. Fab. We’ve got an audience.
“Okay, quick prayer.” Mum slaps her thighs and gets up. “Dear God,” she says hastily, holding her hand in the air, and I’m so frustrated, I don’t close my eyes. Instead, I fold my arms like a stubborn child, avoiding the stares of those nearby who are now more intrigued by our soap opera than the one on the TV screen. “Also bless my daughter, Yinka Beatrice Oladeji. Thank you for the blessings you have bestowed upon her in the last few months. From her job promotion to her new boyfriend, who we pray that by this time next year will be her huzband. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Mum’s prayer is so quick that it takes me a second to react, and then another second to realize that Aunty Blessing is throwing daggers at me.
“That wasn’t too long,” Mum says, sitting down gracefully, clearly oblivious to her gawking audience.
“Yinka has a boyfriend!” cries Big Mama, shimmying her shoulders. “Ehhh! I didn’t know. We thank God!”
“And a job promotion,” says Aunty Blessing, cocking her head to one side. “Funny, because Yinka was at my place earlier and she didn’t mention it.”
“Um . . .” I fluff my hair, forgetting how dirty it is. I stare back at her. I’m trying to communicate with my eyes that I’m sorry and didn’t mean to deliberately lie, and please don’t throw me under the bus.
To my relief, Aunty Blessing doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she turns her head as though to say, This is your mess, not mine.
“It’s because Yinka is so modest,” says Aunty Debbie, darting me a knowing smile. “She never likes to boast about her achievements. But with the baby not around to distract us, Yinka, now’s your chance. So, how’s the new job going, hm? Oh, and Alex?” She wiggles her brows. “The last I heard, your mum said you had lunch together—”
“Oh, yes!” Mum shuffles around in her seat. “I’ve been so busy with Kemi, I forgot. So what did you cook him, ehn? And why haven’t I seen you at church?”
I look from Mum to Aunty Debbie, eager expressions on their faces. Big Mama stuffs a handful of plantain crisps into her mouth. I glance at Aunty Blessing again, but she looks just as keen to hear what I’m about to say. So does the elderly woman sitting nearby who has stopped reading and is openly staring.
Lying got me into this mess and lying won’t get me out of it. Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that the truth will set you free? Or is that quote from Liar Liar? Either way, it’s true.
“Ah, ah! Speak now!” Big Mama says impatiently.
I look down, take a deep breath, then glance up again. Here goes.
“Mum. Aunty Debbie.” I look from one to the other. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news.”
“Ah!” Mum shoots forward to the edge of the chair, her hands on her head wrap. “Bad news? Oh, God. What happened?”
“Alex doesn’t like me,” I say, ripping off the Band-Aid quickly, and Mum shrieks, “Yeh!”
“What do you mean?” cries Aunty Debbie, while Big Mama scoffs and then chokes.
“He likes someone else,” I explain, my pits sweltering. “He told me. Over lunch. To my face.”
“Oh, God!” Mum presses her palm to her forehead and shakes her head. “This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.”
Aunty Debbie narrows her eyes. “Who is she? Give me a name.”
“I don’t know, what does it matter.” I bite my lips. “And that’s not the only bad news.”
“There’s more?” Mum and Aunty Debbie cry at the same time.
I glance over at a very subdued Aunty Blessing, and she nods slowly. “Go ahead, Yinka.”
“Wait, let me drink my water first,” says Big Mama, pulling out an Evian bottle in an attempt to stop the choking.
I wait for her to take a big gulp before I speak. “Um . . . I didn’t get a promotion,” I confess, and there’s a pantomimic gasp.
“You didn’t?” says Aunty Debbie, clutching her invisible pearls.
I shake my head. “No. I actually lost my job. I was made redundant.”