“I see . . .”
“It’s nothing personal against you,” he rushes to say, and I have no desire to hear what he’s about to say next. Tears are burning the backs of my eyes and I’m desperate to get off the phone. “It’s just my preference,” he finishes. “But you’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl, though—”
I hit “end call” before the tears come. I’ve heard enough. Suddenly, I’m hyperventilating. Crying like a child who has just broken her toy. I snatch off my wig and toss my phone to one side, not even caring when it bounces off the bed with a thump. I feel so stupid. Humiliated. I’m taken back to the younger me on the playground. I feel . . . ugly.
I thrust myself out of bed, stomping toward my mirror where I’m confronted with my dark complexion. I cry louder. Gasping for air.
I am the problem. I will never find love, because I’m the problem. All along I was wrong. It’s not what I need to do, but who I need to be.
After wiping my face furiously, I pick up my phone then snatch up my car keys. I don’t bother with my wig. I grab my coat and leave.
It takes me longer than usual to reach Peckham. God, the traffic is intense. Thankfully, the hair shops are still open and I rush into the same one I went into a few months back. I head for the skincare aisle, knowing exactly where to stop.
I grab a handful of all types: creams, soaps, gels, lotions—all promising lighter skin. Fair and beautiful.
I head toward the cashier, my arms full, not giving a damn who sees me. There’s a short queue. I stand behind a plump woman, her acrylic nails clutching two packets of weave.
Aware that my eyes are puffy and red, I stare at the floor, relieved to take a step forward every so often. I’m third in the line now. Nearly there.
Then, just as I’m about to step forward, I hear a little girl say, “Excuse me, please.”
When I look at her, my heart swells. She has rich chocolate skin with short kinky hair tied back in pigtails, and as I stare at her, I see . . . I see . . . me.
“Yinka, you’re beautiful.” I’m hearing Daddy’s voice. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Remember, the midnight sky is just as beautiful as the sunrise.”
I look down at my chest, the array of lightening products pressed against my arm. I feel physically sick.
“I said excuse me, please,” the girl says again. I step back and watch her skip past, the hem of her dress swishing above her white socks until she grabs the hand of a man wearing a durag.
What am I doing? I come back to my senses, and a single tear falls.
I scurry out of the queue, apologizing to the South Asian man who yells, “Next, please!” and hurry up the aisle. I stuff all the products back, not caring that I’ve placed them all wrong on the shelves.
Outside, my emotions are overwhelming and for the first time in Peckham, I feel disoriented. I can’t drive. Not in this state. I need somewhere private.
Blindly I make my way to the park where Donovan and I ate chicken and chips all those weeks ago, collapsing on the same bench. I wipe my eyes. Tears fall. Wipe them again. More tears fall. Giving up, I allow myself to cry, making ugly blubbering sounds.
“Yinka?”
I look up. Donovan is nearing me, holding a takeaway box. I immediately wipe my face. For flip’s sake, can’t I go anywhere without seeing this man?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He rushes over to the bench, casting the takeaway box to one side before wrapping his arm around me.
“Everything!” I clap my knees in exasperation. “Why am I never good enough?”
“Is this about your job situation?” He draws his face closer to mine.
“No. It’s not that. It’s—it’s . . .”
“Family?”
“No, not family. God, I feel so embarrassed.”
Donovan rubs my shoulder, and I feel his strong gaze on me. I keep my eyes fixed on my thighs, which have stopped shaking.
“It’s about that guy, isn’t it?” he says after a moment.
I look up, and a wave of emotions hits me, a rush of blood to the head.
“I just want to be accepted, okay! Accepted for who I am. How I look. What I believe in. I shouldn’t have to compromise myself. Including my bloody virginity. You accept me for who I am. Take it or leave it. I’m tired of changing myself.”
Donovan stares at me. My chest is heaving.
“Sorry.” I glance away. “I—I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Don’t be sorry for who you are. Or what you believe in. No woman should ever feel like they have to compromise themselves, and especially not you. Now, I don’t know what went down with you and this friend of yours, but the person you’re meant to be with will treat you like a queen.”
For some reason, this makes another tear fall. And then another.
“Aww, come on. Yinks.” He pulls me into him. I cry into his shoulders.
“I feel like I’m losing myself, Don.”
He tightens his grip, burying his chin in my hair.
“I feel like I’m losing myself, and I don’t know how to get myself back.”
What brings Yinka here today?
MONDAY
DONOVAN
Hope today goes well x
JOANNA
We’re so proud of you. x
Jacqui isn’t what I expected. Neither is the room we’re sitting in, with its warm lighting, turquoise sofa and yucca plant in the corner. On the table beside me is a glass of water and a Brita jug. Jacqui is sitting opposite me, her hair in braids, shoulders wrapped in a shawl. She’s wearing trainers—Retro New Balance with orange shoelaces.
“Now,” she says, adjusting her notepad lying on her lap. We’ve just run through the terms and conditions—things I have to commit to, like doing my “homework,” which frankly sounds a bit terrifying. “What brings Yinka here today?” She smiles.
I blow out my cheeks and touch my hair, digging my fingers through the coils. “Gosh, where do I even start?”
“Anywhere that is comfortable for you,” she replies, and I glance down at her feet. Unlike mine, they’re perfectly still.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, taking down the number of Donovan’s counselor. But now that I’m here, I’m not too sure. I can’t tell Jacqui about my Post-it note plan. The squats, the pounded yam diet—I’m cringing even just thinking about it. And as a fellow dark-skinned woman, I cannot tell Jacqui that I nearly bought a range of lightening products.
So instead, I say, “Is it so wrong to want love?”
Jacqui gives me a nod, which I’m guessing means, “Tell me more.”
“I want my happily ever after,” I say, and I surprise myself with my defensive tone. “Sorry, I . . .” I breathe out. “I just have this fear. This fear that I’ll never—” I break off, not wanting to say it aloud. “I want to find love and get married one day. Yeah, I know, it’s the twenty-first century, so this makes me a bad feminist, right?”
I reach for my glass of water, needing to hold on to something. I already know what Jacqui is going to say. She’ll tell me all the reasons why marriage doesn’t equate to happiness, as though I don’t already know this.
So when Jacqui shakes her head, no, my brows shoot up in surprise.
“I don’t think it does,” she says sagely. “It just shows that you’re human. And as humans, we have an intrinsic need to find and maintain relationships. So no, Yinka, there’s nothing wrong in wanting these things. But you mentioned the word ‘fear.’ Tell me, is that a fear of yours? That you’ll never find love or get married?”
My mouth parts. I feel as though I’ve walked into a trap that I didn’t even know I had a role in making. I sense that Jacqui realizes this too, as she relaxes back in her chair.
“Maybe we should start with this?” she says. “The catalyst that perpetuated this fear. For many people it’s more than one thing, but let’s start with the first thing that comes to your mind.”