I scan my plan, wondering whether I should add as another objective, “Take up Aunty Debbie’s offer to meet Alex”—and quickly decide against it. No. If I don’t like Alex, Aunty Debbie will forever remind me of how my singleness is my fault until the day I get engaged. Best to leave that option out. Besides, I’m sure there’s bound to be at least one decent-looking single guy at Rachel and Gavesh’s engagement party. If I could meet Femi at an event all those years ago, surely it isn’t too far-fetched to think that I can meet a guy next Friday?
I take one last look at my plan before closing my notebook. Operation Wedding Date. Bring it on.
Like a sister
SUNDAY
YINKA
Mum’s right. I’ll never find a huzband at St. Mary’s Church lol
NANA
Uh, tell me something I don’t know. You coming over? x
YINKA
Yep. See you soon. You better prepare your apology! x
“So . . . you didn’t quite make it to Kemi’s baby shower then?”
It’s an hour later, and I’m stepping through the trillions of sequins and loose bits of thread all over Nana’s carpet at her place in New Cross Gate.
“Actually, I was en route to Kemi’s when you texted me,” she says, tying her long locs into a high bun, which immediately sags to one side because of the weight. Her skinny legs are outstretched on the bed under a baggy dashiki. “But you know how I am with big crowds. I don’t do well with mixed energies. It just . . . I dunno. Disturbs my inner peace.”
I roll my eyes. “You thought you’d come when everyone had left then?” I plonk myself on her bed.
She laughs and shrugs. Nana has not changed one bit in the fifteen years that we’ve been best friends. We met during sixth form after she handed me a clipboard.
“It’s a petition to end hair discrimination against Black people,” she had said.
From that moment, I knew we would get on. And we got on so well that I immediately welcomed her into the fold. Or rather, “Destiny’s Child,” which is what my cousins Rachel, Ola and I called ourselves in secondary school, even though we couldn’t sing to save our lives. Of course, Ola claimed Beyoncé and Rachel claimed Kelly. In my thirteen-year-old mind I was convinced I should have been Kelly since I’m darker, even though none of us looked anything like the band. And though they were always saying, “We’re all best friends,” deep down in my heart I knew I wasn’t as close to them as they were to each other. And I also knew that Ola probably wouldn’t have been my friend at all if it wasn’t for Rachel.
“What do you mean?” Rachel cried when I confided in her about how I felt one day when Ola was off sick from school. “Yinka, don’t be stupid, you’re family. She loves you. If she has a problem with anyone, it’s her mum, not you.”
I couldn’t contest this. Aunty Debbie was hard on Ola growing up, constantly comparing us like two kitchen appliances she was deciding between. If it wasn’t our grades, then it was the length of our hair, and if it wasn’t our behavior in class, then it was who had the clearest skin. That wasn’t my fault, though. And I had my own problems with Mum always pushing me.
When I met Nana and we clicked, I thought, Finally, I have my own best friend. I clung to her like a sister. There’s something about Nana’s chilled energy and her bohemian swag, which is both refreshing and admirable. Despite our very distinct personalities, we looked like sisters, according to some. Same dark skin, slim frame and what I’ve coined the J-shaped bum.
I don’t know why my obsession with women’s bottoms started—I think maybe it’s because God didn’t endow me with a big one—but I’ve grown the habit of labeling women’s bum outlines with letters of the alphabet, a bit like how women’s body shapes are named after different fruits. I’ve concluded that both Nana and I have a J-shaped bum. There is no demarcation between where our back ends and bum starts, just a slope with the tiniest bit of fat residing at the base. Still, Nana wears anything she feels like—she has this African meets grunge style (Afropunk, I think it’s called?)—as for me, I hate any clothing that shows off my flat behind. I practically live in long cardigans.
“So . . . Rachel’s engaged,” says Nana now, rubbing the side of her shoulder, two black ankh tattoos on display.
“And we’re bridesmaids.”
Nana grins. “Guess who’s making the bridesmaids’ dresses?”
I give Nana’s foot a light squeeze. “Well, in that case, I know we’ll look amazing.” I gaze at the opposite wall covered with dozens of sketches and photos of her designs made out of bold wax fabric, inspired by her Ghanaian heritage. “I swear, Nana, you need to leave your job and do this full time. Honestly, you’re so talented. I mean, look at that jacket!” I swing my arm toward a mannequin where a blue blazer with giant shoulder pads and a lapel made out of Kente cloth is draped. “It’s like something out of Black Panther.”
Nana laughs and twiddles her nose ring. “I know, I know. But bills have to be paid.” She slaps her thighs. “Anyways, how was the baby shower? Why did you suddenly decide to bounce?”
“Ah! Where should I even start?” I shuffle until my back hits the wall, and then tell her everything, barely stopping to take a breath. Well, everything except the part when Aunty Debbie said those not-so-nice things about her, and when Ola called me closed-minded.
“Damn,” Nana breathes after I’ve spilled the tea. I’m parched from all the ranting. “Aunty Debbie definitely took the piss. I mean, praying publicly over your singleness. That’s a new low.”
“Thank you!”
“And this guy she wants to introduce you to—”
“Alex,” I say, ready to launch into another rant.
“Remind me why don’t you want to meet him again?”
I stare at Nana, speechless.
She stares back. “You’re single, sooo, what’s the problem?”
“Nana, weren’t you listening? Aunty Debbie em-bar-razed me,” I say, putting on a Nigerian accent. “No, scratch that, she humiliated me and she got my mum in on the act,” I add before she can jump in. “And what would happen if I met Alex and didn’t like him? You think Aunty Debbie wouldn’t kick up a fuss? Puh-lease. Let’s not forget what she did at Kemi’s wedding.”
At this, Nana purses her lips.
“Exactly.”
What happened was that when I had failed to catch the bouquet, Aunty Debbie had made a mad dash to the dance floor, grabbed the mic from the MC’s hands and called back the winner, demanding to know how old the woman was before insisting that her niece needed the bouquet more than she did. When she discovered we were the same age, she snatched the bouquet from the woman’s hands, split it in two and then announced, “Now both of you will get married,” and my three hundred uncles and aunties chorused, “Amen!”
Nana shakes her head. “I see your point. It’s just . . .” She trails off. Bites her lip.
I sigh. “Go on, you might as well just say it.”
“Well, I know you believe in love, yeah. And it’s great that you believe that one day you’ll find it. But don’t you think you actually need to, you know, step out to find it?”
I laugh. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” My girl hasn’t had a boyfriend in a million years. Lucky for her, she can get away with it because her parents are those liberal, laid-back types. My mum would have killed me if I’d told her that I had no plans to go to uni.
“Hey, this is not about me,” she says. “There’s a big difference between you and me. I’m okay if I never find love and grow old on my own. I prefer my own company, to be honest.” She points a finger at me. “You are a hopeless romantic. You believe in love and all that ish.”
“And I’ll find it, but not with the help of Aunty Debbie.”