“Then how?” Nana grips her hair, the messy bun sagging even lower. “How will you find a man when all you do is work these days?”
“I have to bloody work,” I protest. “Besides, these last three years I wasn’t focused on getting a man, you know that. But nowww . . .” Do I tell her about Operation Wedding Date? No, too embarrassing. A coy smile slips across my face. “Now I think it’s time for Yinka to get her groove back.”
Nana quirks a brow then leans forward and places a hand on my forehead, as though to check whether I’ve got a temperature. I shrug her off and she laughs.
“Nana, I’m serious! In fact, I’ve got a plan. This coming Friday at Rachel’s engagement party . . . I’m going to speak to a few guys.”
Nana snorts. “I wouldn’t ride all your hopes on this Friday.”
I frown.
“Isn’t it more of a small gathering? I’m sure Rachel told me it’s not a party. Anyway, isn’t online dating easier?”
“That’s my next option. I’ve heard way too many harrowing stories to try that unless I have to. Plus, you know I’m old skool.”
“True.” Nana laughs. “Well, I’m just happy that you’re actually putting yourself out there. I was getting worried that you were still hung up on Femi.”
I fold my arms. “Err, excuse me. I don’t even stalk the guy on Facebook.”
Nana scoffs. “You’re the only person I know who still uses Facebook.”
We laugh, then I start thinking back to my plan. I really do hope there are a few single guys at Rachel and Gavesh’s engagement party—gathering, whatever. But maybe, like Nana said, I should look at other options too.
Samsung Memo cancel
Text Joanna and Brian about after-work drinks tomorrow.
“Hey, Yinka?”
“Huh?” I look up to see Nana fiddling with her many ear piercings. “Don’t tell me you need me to be a mannequin again.”
“No, not that.” She rubs her finger over her Cleopatra tattoo on the back of her left wrist. “The landlady wants to put the rent up.”
“Seriously? That’s insane. I swear you only just moved in about six months ago.”
Nana sighs. “I know, right. Who would have thought that New Cross would be an expensive place to live?”
“Damn. That sucks.”
“Yup,” she says glumly. “So I was thinking . . .” She pushes out her lips. “You know you have two bedrooms . . .”
“Oh, no, please . . .”
“It won’t be forever,” Nana cries. “Please, Yinka. Otherwise, I have to move in with my sister and her three kids. Where would I put my stuff?”
“But it will ruin our friendship,” I whine. “Also, wouldn’t living with me affect your energy?”
“So now you want to be all spiritual.” She hits my knee with a pillow. “Yinka, come on. What’s the real reason you don’t want me to move in?”
I glance down, fake-cough. “You’re messy.”
“Messy?” Nana gasps like I’ve just dissed Beyoncé. Seriously, can she not see the evidence? In addition to her carpet, which could do with a deep Dyson clean, tons of yarn, fabric and plastic bags spew out of every corner. Nana’s sewing table is a mess—you can hardly see her sewing machine—and oh, no, is that old tangerine peel I see?
“It’s called Art,” she says proudly, but even she can’t keep a straight face. “Come on, Yinka.” She laughs. “You’re my last hope. How can I bribe you? I know. You love my cooking, right? Now imagine this. Jerk chicken. Jollof rice. Every night.”
For a moment, I’m slightly swayed. Nana is an amazing cook.
I throw her pillow back at her. “I’ll think about it.”
Can I have tap water, please?
MONDAY
History Ctrl+H
Recently Closed
How to approach a guy at the bar without looking like a complete weirdo—Elle
“I can’t believe they actually prayed for you,” says Joanna, hand over her mouth, spluttering laughter. “Like kumbaya prayed for you.”
It’s seven in the evening and I’m standing near the bar with my favorite colleagues, Joanna and Brian, at our usual after-work spot—All Bar One. As always, the place is buzzing. With Operation Wedding Date now in action, I’ve worn my best white blouse and tucked it into my black A-line skirt from H&M. I did consider the bare legs look, but it’s too cold. Joanna, on the other hand, is wearing a figure-hugging pencil skirt, and what, for her sake, I hope are nude tights.
I met Joanna about five years ago after she ever so kindly passed a wad of tissues under my toilet cubicle, when silly me forgot to check the tissue dispenser beforehand. We quickly grew from stall mates to good friends, and thanks to her working in PR, I’ve seen Jorja Smith live. Brian joined my team last year as a graduate analyst and during his first week, my manager Louise gave him an earful—“You’re here to work, Brian, not to chit-chat.” Feeling sorry for him, I invited him out for coffee with me and Joanna, and since making the introduction, they’ve become inseparable. I call them JoBrian whenever I’m feeling lazy (which is often).
“Man. Sorry, babe,” says Brian, visibly distressed. He slings his gray blazer over one shoulder. “You have it worse than me. When I came out to my mum, she only said, ‘Well, I better put the kettle on.’ And she’s a Roman Catholic.”
We laugh.
“Welcome to my life,” I say, projecting my voice over the buzz of chatter as more and more people in smart shirts and loose ties pile into the venue. There are loads of men here, but no one has caught my eye, which is a bit rubbish given that the article I read earlier suggested making “smoldering” eye contact (whatever that means). To make matters difficult, most of the men are drinking in huddles and some are being annoyingly shouty. And what if they work for Godfrey? Dammit, I didn’t think about that. Would that make things awkward?
“That’s the thing with coming from a Nigerian family.” I drag my eyes back to Brian. “They forget that love is a process. That you need to fall in love first, not just meet a random guy and decide he’s the one to marry.”
“Are you going to meet this Alex guy then?” Brian clearly hasn’t been listening.
“Of course not.” A man brushes by and nearly yanks my arm off.
“Why not?” Brian pushes up his glasses. “He sounds like a catch, sooo—”
“Don’t encourage her!” Joanna flicks her fringe away from her eyes. “If she gets with Alex, then what about Derek?”
I put down my drink so that I can properly scowl at her.
Ever since I told JoBrian about Derek, I’ve had to put up with them constantly saying, “He’s the one.” It doesn’t help that they both know what he looks like—my fault, showing them Derek’s Facebook photos. Why did I do that again?
Derek and I go way back. We attended the same Sunday school at All Welcome Church, but we became proper friends when we were eighteen and both studying hard to get into our first-choice university. We provided each other with moral support, hung out in the library together. I thought our relationship was platonic, but then one day, Derek showed up at the bar while I was having a pity party with Kemi over my breakup with Femi. I spent God knows how long talking to him. He was a shoulder to lean on. Literally. Then, when Kemi was in the toilets, he said in a low voice, “Yinka. Femi may not want you, but . . . but I do.”
I jerked up as if he was a spider. Then, as now, I saw Derek as a nice guy but still Derek. Zero chemistry. I’ve just never seen him in a romantic way.
“I like you, Yinka,” he said, just about managing to hold eye contact.
My stomach twisted in knots. I knew how painful unrequited love is and how it feels to have your heart broken. So rather than telling him how I really felt, I said, “Derek . . . I just got out of a relationship.” And thankfully, he didn’t say anything else.
I haven’t seen him in a while now. Hmm. Another reason why I shouldn’t attend All Welcome any time soon.
“Yes!” Brian turns to Joanna, mouth wide. “How could I forget our beloved Derek? Yinka, I kid you not, you would make a beautiful couple.”