Ooh. He looks cute. Scratch that. I can’t date a smoker.
“Can you see where I’m coming from?” Nana says at the same time that my heart stops.
I squint.
Wait. Is that—is that Donovan?
“Oi!”
Nana snatches my phone and holds it out of reach.
“Give it back!” I yell.
“You weren’t even listening to me, were you?” She ignores my cries and looks down at the screen. “Seriously?” she says, glancing back at me.
“What?” I make a swing for my phone again. “Didn’t you say I should put myself out there?”
“Not like this,” she says.
“Okay, gimme my phone.” I let out a short laugh. “I’ve taken out my weave, which you were so vehemently against. And you took away the one guy I actually liked. Honestly, what more do you want from me?”
Nana looks at me, her lips quivering in shock.
“Thank you,” I enunciate as she slaps my phone into my palm. I glance down and unlock it, going straight back on Hinge to make my point.
“Fine,” she mutters. She stomps out of the room, and I don’t bother to look up. Instead, I relocate the profile.
I wasn’t seeing things. There he is, with his beard and cornrows and those annoying dimples. Donovan. I read his one-sentence statement: You should message me if you can hold a conversation. Typical.
“I’m only doing this because I care about you.”
Nana has burst back into my room. She’s brandishing a white business card. “His name is Francis Kirkland. He’s a professional counselor. My co-worker recommended him—”
“Nana, you’re overreacting. I don’t need to see a counselor.”
Still, she forces the card into my hand as though I’m refusing money. “Call him first thing on Monday.”
“Or what?” I fold my arms.
Nana folds hers too. “Or . . . I’ll move out.”
May
Sod it
MONDAY
Monday, 3 May at 12.09 a.m.
From: Shane, Dave
To: Yinka Oladeji
Subject: Update
Hi Yinka,
Hope you’re well.
I just realized I never got back to you. Apologies. It’s been manic ever since I returned from my holiday.
Sadly, no updates from any of the employers Sarah put you forward for.
Will be in touch if I hear anything.
Cheers,
Dave
Catasift Recruitments
I pause the finale of How to Get Away with Murder and put my laptop down. I stroll to the bathroom while simultaneously opening the Tinder app, plonking my bottom on the toilet seat. After stumbling across Donovan’s online dating profile, I’ve had no choice but to delete my Hinge account. I just pray that he didn’t see my profile. That would be extremely awkward.
I can’t believe I’m on Tinder. (Sigh.) The one dating app I didn’t think I’d sign up for, but here I am. It’s hella addictive. Joanna and Brian were of course in favor when I told them about it last Friday.
“About time,” Brian said as we sat in the All Bar One that I had avoided going to for months.
“Thank you,” I said loudly, sipping my expensive lemonade. I pulled a face. “Nana thinks I shouldn’t be dating right now.”
“What?” Joanna screwed up her brows.
“I know, right! Anyway, how’s the new job?”
From the light in her eyes, I knew she was going to say . . .
“I love it. I love the people. I love the culture.” Joanna listed each thing she loved with her fingers. Then after Brian and I had asked enough questions, we moved on to talk about her boyfriend, Brandon. It seems like they’re very happy.
“And how about you, Brian?” I asked, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my chest. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. I’m happy for her.
Brian was still hating his job. And I hated myself for feeling relieved.
“So how are things with you?” he asked, slowly stirring his drink with a straw.
I looked at my phone. “Still job hunting.”
True to her word, Aunty Blessing put me in touch with Terry Matthews, and despite e-mailing him my CV about a week ago, I have not heard back. Aunty Blessing did say that he is a very busy man, but still, I was hoping for something sooner.
Joanna diverted the conversation. “Ooh, how’s Nana? How are plans for her fashion show going?”
I scratched the top of my ear. Since Nana gave me that business card, I’ve been trying my best to avoid her. She thinks that I’ve booked a counseling session when really I chucked the card the night she gave it to me. I just think she’s being overly dramatic. Let’s hope she doesn’t find out that I’m fobbing her off. I’d hate to see her move out. I really can’t afford the entire place alone.
“She’s great,” I said eventually. “Very busy. Understandably.”
I excused myself to the bar and checked my WhatsApp messages. Rachel’s “I’m Getting Married, Biatch” group has been quiet for a while. Not like I’m expecting to hear from either her or Ola. And since then, my main companionship has been my new friend, Tinder.
Ten minutes have gone by, and I’m still on the toilet seat, swiping left.
No. No—hang on. I recognize this guy.
Marcus. Where have I seen him before?
I’m racking my brain, trying to remember why I recognize those blue eyes, when I’m interrupted by an incoming call from Kemi. I feel a pang of guilt.
Since Kemi gave birth, I’ve only been round once. It’s not like I’m not happy for her. God, my heart swells when I see the way she looks at Chinedu. Even now, a little part of my chest aches because I may never have that. Years ago, when I was with Femi, I could dream of having a family and it didn’t seem far-fetched. But now, any time the thought comes to mind, it’s punishing. And this is what has kept me away. This and Mum always being at Kemi’s place. I’m not exactly in her good books right now, and the atmosphere is unbearable. I make a mental note to try to visit at a time when Mum’s not there.
“Hey, sis,” I say, feeling bad that I didn’t contact her first.
The sound of Chinedu wailing in the background is what I hear first, followed by Kemi. “Yinka, I’m stressed out. I feel like my brain is going to explode. Why won’t he stop crying?”
“Isn’t Mum with you?” I ask. I have absolutely no idea how to help her.
Kemi sighs. “Mum had to pop out.” Over Chinedu’s screams, I hear Uche say, “Here, give him to me.” Then I hear a whimper, but it’s not from the baby. Kemi sounds worn out.
“I knew it would be hard,” she’s now saying, her voice breaking. “But I never knew it would be this hard.”
As she pours her frustrations out—something about painful nipples?—I find myself contemplating whether or not to swipe right on the twenty-eight-year-old, animal-loving marketer, saying “hmm” and “bless you” hopefully in all the right places.
There’s something about Marcus’s easygoing smile that’s making me hover. Where have I seen him before?
Then it hits me.
Marcus is the guy who Brian showed me when Joanna set up her Tinder account. At the time, I thought he was cute, but Joanna wasn’t feeling him.
I ponder which way to swipe. Marcus is white. What would he make of my kinky hair and dark lips and chocolate skin?
“Sod it,” I say under my breath, and swipe right.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Carry on.”
As Kemi continues her rant, the screen changes within seconds. I can’t believe it. We’re a match!
I start to stand up, then freeze. Oh no. He’s just messaged me.
Feeling jittery, I sit back on the toilet seat again, my hand holding the towel rack for support.
Hey, Yinka. How’s it going?
My belly flips. I reply:
Hey, Marcus. I’m good. How are you?
There’s the unbearable wait of the three dots. Get a grip, girl, he’s a bloody stranger!
“Yinka!”
The abruptness of Kemi’s voice makes me jump.
“Sorry, I missed that. What was it that you were saying?”
She huffs. “Have you even been listening?”
“What? ‘Course, I have.” I take Kemi off speakerphone. Marcus will just have to wait. “You were ranting about your tender nipples, weren’t you?”
The frostiness of the silence confirms that I’m way off.