Ola snorts. “No. What I wanted to say is”—she takes a breath—“I’m going to become a freelance makeup artist.”
“Wow, congrats, Ola.” I squeeze her shoulders, and Aunty Blessing says, “Well, good for you.”
“I’m good at makeup so I thought, hey, why not. Plus, I can fit it around the kids.”
Mum says, “Good. I’ll be calling you from now on. Any time Kemi does my makeup, I look like a clown.”
We all laugh, except for Aunty Debbie.
“Mum?” Ola places a hand on her mum’s knee.
Aunty Debbie remains poker, and we all hold our breath.
Suddenly, she breaks out in a smile. “So does this mean I get a discount then?”
Ola and I exhale with laughter.
“Hold on,” Mum says. “I want a discount too.”
A slightly out of breath Rachel appears from behind us wearing a white robe, her hair half-straightened. She does the quickest genuflect, then turns to me and Ola. “Nana needs you.”
* * *
—
Backstage the atmosphere is buzzing: people everywhere, some half-dressed and others wearing brightly patterned garments. There are photographers, vanity mirrors, ooh, body art. A strong smell of hairspray punctures the air. Among the hubbub, I spot Nana, on her knees, her face vexed, hemming a model’s lace mermaid skirt.
“Argh!” She drops the pins. “Why the fuck is everything going wrong today?”
Whoa. Nana must be stressed out. She never curses.
“Okay, I need to get ready,” says Rachel. She makes a swift dash to the right. Ola and I ask Nana whether she’s okay.
“No!” She clambers to her feet. “One of the models just canceled. I don’t need this right now. Not on the most important day of my life.”
“Okay, breathe.” Ola demonstrates by breathing in. “Can’t you just get one of your other models to step in?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” Nana sighs. “I want all the models to showcase my collection together at the very end. Great. Now my vision is all messed up.” She blows out her cheeks.
“I’ll step in.”
Nana blinks at me.
“I’ll be the model. Hopefully, the clothes will fit?”
“Yeah, she’s about your size and height. But Yinka, are you sure?” Now Nana doesn’t look as desperate. “Let me at least show you the outfit first before you commit to anything.” She pulls out a garment cover from a nearby rack.
“Oh,” I say after she zips it open. “It’s a . . . swimsuit.”
“A monokini,” she corrects, and she twirls it by the hanger. I eye the tribal prints, the cut-out slits. Ooh, and it’s backless.
“Yinka, are you sure?” Ola is saying while Nana says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“No. Hand me that—whatever it’s called. Me and my J-behind are going to rock that catwalk.”
Nana hugs me. “You’re a lifesaver.”
I squeeze her. “No, it’s time for me to be there for you.”
“Hey, make space for me.” Ola throws her arm around us.
“What are we all hugging for?” Rachel says, rushing over.
“Yinka’s our new model,” says Nana as we draw apart. “Quick. Get changed. Then go to hair and makeup.”
“I’ll do her makeup!” Ola volunteers.
As quick as I can, I strip out of my clothes before sliding into the monokini and a pair of heels. “Um, Nana. I’m also going to need a razor stick.”
After I’ve sorted out my bikini line, I hurry to hair and makeup, and en route, I spot Donovan chatting to the other male models. Oh yeah, I forgot Nana talked him into it. The tallest of the bunch, he’s wearing these cool dip-dyed shorts and a red dashiki vest. We lock eyes and he smiles.
At last, and with only one minute to go, I’m standing behind the stage with the other female models. In our bold colors and Nana’s edgy designs, we look both confident and powerful, like African royalty. We embody the strength of Queen Mothers.
Hugging my exposed waist, I crane my neck. Nana is studiously watching a screen that shows everything that’s happening on stage.
“Okay, thirty seconds!” she yells, and everything goes dead quiet. “And remember, guys. Own it.” She gives me a wink.
The music goes on again. The deafening, loud, pumping kind. And after a deep breath, I let go of my waist.
* * *
—
Three minutes. That’s how long the standing ovation went on for, after Nana delivered the fashion show of the year. Three words: she smashed it. Photographers, bloggers and fans are ambushing her as though she’s Beyoncé.
“Congratulations!”
As soon as Nana breaks away, Ola, Rachel and I join her family by half-throttling her with a hug, before loading her with a bouquet of flowers, kisses and compliments.
“Girls, thank you so much for your help earlier,” Nana says. “And Rachel, Yinka, you killed the runway.”
Everything happened so quickly—one minute I was being ushered on to the stage, the next I was physically on it. Suddenly, this confidence came out of nowhere and I was strutting, hands on hips. I didn’t care that the majority of my body was exposed, including my J-shaped bum, which I’ve now decided to stop referring to it as. I wasn’t in my head, worried about the bright lights, or if I would fall off at the end and break my neck. Instead, I was in the moment, reciting the letter to my younger self: Yes, your rich chocolate skin does deserve a seat at the table.
“So out of the three of us, you smashed your bridesmaid’s goal,” says Rachel, patting Nana on her back.
“Nuh-uh,” says Nana. “Rach, surely you’ve reached your weight goal by now?”
Rachel smiles. “I haven’t, but I’m flattered you think I have. Truthfully, I ditched my diet months ago. When I thought about it, I was like, hey. I want to look like myself on my wedding day. And I love my curves!” She puts her hands on her hips.
“While we’re on the topic of goals,” says Ola. “I’ve got some news to share.”
As Nana and Rachel gush over Ola’s news to become a makeup artist, I scan the crowd and the rows of chairs. I don’t spot who I’m looking for, but I do spot a familiar face.
“Alex!” I say after slipping into the crowd.
He looks up from his phone. “Hey! Long time.” He leans over and hugs me.
“So, how’s things?” we say at the same time.
Alex chuckles. “Ladies first.”
Over the background noise, I tell him about my decision to have a career change. He tells me about his work with the same animated expression as always. And while we are chatting, I keep thinking, Alex isn’t a bad guy. There’s no reason we can’t be friends.
“Alex,” I say after he stops talking. “I’ve got a confession to make. You know that time when I made you Nigerian food? Well . . . I had a helping hand. And if you’re willing,” I quickly add as he laughs, “I would love for you to show me how to make proper Naija food one day.”
I return to the girls with a cooking session with Alex in my calendar. Joanna and Brian have joined them, Brandon and Ricky in tow.
“Ooh, we’ve got something for you,” says Brian after we’ve gushed over the best bits of Nana’s fashion show. Joanna hands me a gift bag.
“Aww, guys. You shouldn’t have.” I squirrel into the bag as though it’s Christmas Day. I gasp.
“We thought you could use it to jot down your thoughts after counseling,” says Joanna as I awe over the beautiful notebook, its sleeve made out of wax fabric.
“And what’s this?” I push the tissue paper to one side and pull out a damask pink hair bonnet.
“You weren’t able to get a hairnet that time,” says Joanna as I rub the cap against my cheek. It’s silk!
“Aww, thank you, guys.” I embrace them together. Jeez. Shame on me for thinking that they were out of touch with Black culture. As I draw back, I catch Donovan staring at me. I excuse myself.
“Well, look at you, Miss Naomi Campbell.” We hug. Thankfully, he’s back in his own clothes again.
“Well, look at you, Mr. Michael B. Jordan.”
Donovan smiles.
I clear my throat. “I got some news to share with you—”
“Oh, yeah? I’ve got some too. But go ahead, you first.”