Clearly, I must have forgotten that I’m with my white friends because in true Nigerian style, I swing a hand over my head, clicking my fingers, repeating, “God forbid. God forbid,” like Mum does.
Brian and Joanna stare at me.
I clear my throat and reach for my drink. “Besides, I’ve already got a plan for how I’m going to get a man.” I watch Joanna’s brows flicker with interest.
“A plan?” she says, bobbing her straw in her glass.
“Ooh. Tell us more,” Brian adds.
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I just plan to, you know, put myself out there a bit more. Maybe talk to a couple of guys at my cousin’s engagement this Friday. If that doesn’t work then, I dunno, maybe try online dating or something—”
Brian’s mouth falls open. “You’re not even on Tinder?! God, Yinka. No wonder you’re bloody single.”
I take a slow sip of my G&T. “Apparently, the guys on there are only after sex.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Brian smirks. “Just kidding. Though I’m not going to lie to you, you have to do a bit of weeding. But don’t forget! I found the love of my life on Tinder. Ricky and I are going two years strong.”
“Hey, I’m not the only one that’s single,” I point out, nodding to Jo.
Brian shoots Joanna a playful glare. “Oh, I’m on to her too.”
“I’ll stick to my paid online dating sites, thank you very much.” Joanna knocks back the rest of her wine. “My theory is this—if a man is happy to pay to search for love, then surely he must be after a serious relationship, right?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But that doesn’t stop them from being bad dates.”
Brian gasps. “Ohmigod, yes! Remember that time when Jo got catfished?”
While Brian recounts the date that Joanna had a few months back with an FBI-looking IT technician who refused to take off his sunglasses, I spot a chiseled Black man making his way from the men’s toilets. My brows rise. He is definitely not a Godfrey employee, because as a Black minority, I’m convinced that I know all the Black people in the office—and trust me, I definitely would have remembered his face.
Brian is still talking as I sneakily watch the man weave through the crowd. “Hey!” I’m suddenly thrown forward after someone knocks into me from behind.
“What a moron.” Brian raises his voice. “Aww, look. Your drink’s all over the floor.”
“Let me get you another.” Joanna rummages in her bag.
“No, it’s okay. There was only a little left.” I look around frantically. Chiseled Black Man walks straight out of the bar. Well, that ended before it even started.
Joanna flaps a hand. “It’s cool. I got it.”
“It’s fine, thanks. I don’t drink that much anyway.”
Joanna lets out a belly laugh. “Yinka, what you do doesn’t class as drinking. How about you, Brian? Fancy another?”
“Well, if you’re paying,” he sings.
Joanna flags down a bartender. I place my empty glass on the counter and glance away.
Great. Once again, Yinka is the boring one. I just don’t want to have to explain my limited alcohol consumption for the hundredth time.
Yes, Christians are not technically forbidden to drink alcohol—hey, even Jesus turned water into wine—but the Bible does encourage Christians not to get drunk. “Sooo, if you can’t get drunk, then what’s the point of drinking?” I imagine they would say while exchanging fleeting glances. Then I would have to explain the whole virtue of being sober-minded and in control of yourself thing. Or I could chicken out and say, “God just wants to save humanity from a few hangovers.” Either way, this is something I refuse to get into.
Just as Joanna is about to order their drinks, I tap her shoulder.
“Actually, can I have a tap water, please?”
Our drinks arrive, and Joanna hands them out. “Ooh, we should make a toast,” she says.
“What to?” Brian takes a sip of his cocktail. “And please don’t say to the New Year. It’s so over.”
“How about my promotion?” I suggest.
“Oooh. Someone’s confident.” Brian nudges me.
“Yes, because I damn well deserve it.” I raise my glass of tap water in the air. “Seriously. Eight years I’ve been at Godfrey. With all the long hours I’ve put in, I should already be VP by now.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You do deserve it,” Brian admits. “Especially with all the sucking up to the MDs you did.”
I snort. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
“Well, in that case. To Yinka!” Joanna raises her glass. “To getting the promotion that you truly deserve tomorrow.”
We all clink our glasses. “Cheers!”
This actually cannot be happening
TUESDAY
Oh, God, no.
No, no, no, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
This actually cannot be happening.
I read the subject line on the printed letter over and over again:
RE: Termination of employment by redundancy
I’m being made redundant! My heart is pounding in my chest, the letter that my manager Louise slid across the table trembling in my hands.
“I’m sorry,” says my manager in that patronizing voice of hers. “But, as you know, Godfrey & Jackson is going through a very difficult period. Budgets have been slashed and cuts have to be made.”
“But this doesn’t make sense.” I’m struggling to breathe. “What about the promotion? I worked hard. You even said so yourself—”
“Well.” She shrugs. “What can I say? That’s life. Do get in touch if you need a reference, though.”
Seven hours later . . .
I’m sitting in front of what is now my former desk, the sound of a hoover blasting in the background. After sobbing my eyes out in the disabled toilets, I decided to go home and come back in the evening to clear my desk (I had to sweet-talk security to let me through the barriers, though). Better this way with just the cleaners around, than in front of my entire team.
“How are you feeling?” asks Joanna as I throw a handful of Biros in an orange Sainsbury’s bag with all my other desk belongings.
“How do you think she feels?” Brian whispers. “Why would you ask her such a stupid question?”
“I feel like shit.” I slump back in my chair. “I feel like someone is playing a nasty prank on me. I mean, eight years, Jo, and this is how they repay me?”
Like a film reel, my time at Godfrey flashes through my mind. All the late nights. The early starts. The arse-kissing. The sacrifices, the compromises. The exhaustion, the unfair reprimands.
And yes, granted, I never loved my job, or my manager, or the high-pressured work culture, but I felt comfortable in this role, and I was good at it. I never once complained about the repetitiveness of analyzing each trade to make sure they were settled properly. Never said, “Figure it out” when junior members in my team needed help. I was the first one in, last one out. I took up the slack.
In the end, it has all been for nothing.
“Well, at least you didn’t get the chop,” I say to Brian, trying to find the silver lining in this nightmare of a situation. He drapes his long arms over my shoulders and nuzzles his chin into my hair.
“Why did they have to let you gooo?” he says overdramatically. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive without you, Yinka. You know they only kept me on because I’m a graduate. Cheap labor. And I can’t believe Mary’s gone too. I almost fainted when I saw the e-mail.”
Yes, in addition to me getting the boot, a load of other people have been let go, including Mary, which took me by surprise. She just got promoted last year. Then there’s Sanjay and Bobbie. Gayle and Tony too. Tony hasn’t even completed his probation.
“So what’s the deal with PR and Media?” asks Brian, lifting his arms away. I still smell his Paco Rabanne on my cardigan.
“Who knows?” Joanna tosses a crumpled-up Post-it into a nearby recycling bin. “But believe me when I say I’m not waiting around to find out. Starting this weekend, I’m looking for another job.”
I feel a swoosh of nerves. I haven’t applied for a job since my early twenties. Even then, I was applying for graduate schemes as opposed to a position at a company. I’ll have to update my CV, trawl the Internet, finesse my LinkedIn page, brush up on my interview skills, and who knows what else.