“Not yet,” I reply, still rummaging for my jacket. “Nana has gone AWOL. I’m hoping Rachel will be here soon. Her mum’s just arrived—finally!” I wrench my jacket out of the pile. But it’s too late.
“Ah! You’re not going yet, are you?” says Mum, pulling up her wrapper and marching into the room followed by Aunty Debbie. “Your Aunty and I need to speak to you.” She grabs me by the wrist, and before I know it, I’m sandwiched between the two sisters on the bed.
“Yinka, how are you, hm?” Aunty Debbie flutters her fake lashes, as if the Bambi act will make her look innocent. “How’s life? In fact, how’s work?” Her lips curl into a smile. It’s as though the prayer of the century never happened.
“Uh, work’s fine.” Suddenly, I get a flash of inspiration. “Actually, this coming Tuesday I’m getting promoted.”
Okay, pause. What I meant to say was, “On Tuesday, I find out whether I’ve been promoted.” But before I can correct myself, Aunty Debbie throws herself at me.
“A promotion!” She gasps. “Yinka! That’s wonderful.”
“This is news to me,” I hear Mum say.
“So what’s the new role, hm?” Aunty Debbie’s eyes are sparkly with interest.
“Well . . .” I begin, fluffing my fro. No point backtracking now. “I’m being promoted from a managerial position to a vice president. In the operations team.”
Mum’s hands have flown to her head. “Vice president!” she cries. “Yinka, for the love of God, why do you want to run the bank, ehn? This job they want to give you is a man’s job, you know that? Not for a woman who wants a huzband and kids.”
“Mum!” I can’t help but laugh—what she’s just said is wrong on so many levels. “Not that kind of vice president.” God, bless her. “This new role is just a step up from what I’m currently doing. And besides, there are loads of vice presidents at Godfrey. None of them are close to running the bank.”
“Well, I think it’s brilliant,” says Aunty Debbie, giving me a wide smile. She swings her head to her daughter. Sniffs. “Ola. Aren’t you going to congratulate your cousin?”
A pang of guilt hits me while I watch Ola slowly dispose of a wet wipe into a plastic bag.
“Congratulations,” she says, as though I’ve beaten her to become prom queen.
“You see, that’s why having a degree is so important.” Aunty Debbie has moved on. “It’s like having a passport. It can take you almost anywhere.”
I want to kick myself and hit the rewind button. Yinka, why, why, why would you bring up the promotion? You know Aunty Debbie hasn’t forgiven Ola for dropping out of uni when she fell pregnant the first time.
“Well, Nana doesn’t have a degree,” Ola mutters as she wrestles Daniel’s legs into his trousers.
Aunty Debbie belts out a theatrical laugh. “Nana!” She scoffs. “The same Nana that is still working as a bartender and doing shifts at H&M? Ola, please.”
“And she’s a fashion designer!” I race to my best friend’s defense.
Aunty Debbie rolls her eyes. “Aspiring fashion designer.” She bats a hand. “Anyway, how do you fancy attending your mum’s church tomorrow?”
“Uhm, what about my church?” I say, and Mum scoffs. Mum has never been a fan of St. Mary’s. It’s not that she holds anything against the Church of England denomination; though she does question whether one can learn anything in a one-hour service as opposed to All Welcome Church’s three-hour Pentecostal marathon. No, the thing about my church which gives Mum great concern is . . . let’s just say the “makeup” of the congregation.
“Yinka, how do you expect to meet a huzband, ehn?” she would say, punctuating each word with a clap. “This church of yours, it’s full of old, oyibo people!”
“Well, tomorrow,” Aunty Debbie continues, “you’ll go to your mum’s church. There’s a young man I want to introduce you to. His name is Alex. He’s one of my tenants. He’s new to London but originally from Bristol. Tall. Handsome. You’ll like him.”
While Aunty Debbie rattles on about Alex’s profession—a website designer, makes good money—Mum literally rubs her hands in delight.
“Thank you for thinking of me, Aunty,” I say. “You really didn’t have to. I’m not in a rush to meet someone.” Then quickly, I add, “I think it’s best to wait on God’s timing, you know?”
Aunty Debbie’s jaw drops. Then—
“Yinka! For the love of God. Do you just expect a man to fall from the sky, ehn?” Mum glares at me. Her question isn’t rhetorical. She wags a finger. “Don’t tell me you’re still crying over Femi.”
“No, I—”
“Look at your cousin.” She points at Ola, who finishes packing up her nappy changing bag. “Married with three kids.”
I raise my brows. Clearly Ola and Jon’s shotgun wedding doesn’t matter so much to her.
“And look at your junior sister. Married and pregnant.”
I knew it was only a matter of time before she brought that up again.
“And look at your cousin, Rachel—”
“She’s not married!” I point out.
“Ehn, not yet but she will be soon. Yinka, what is wrong with you? Why are you being so stubborn when you’re no longer a young woman—”
“Do you want to end up like Aunty Blessing?” Aunty Debbie says.
“Kai! God forbid.” Mum swings a hand over her head, clicking her fingers, yelling, “God, don’t let my daughter end up like Blessing o. No huzband. No children. No grandchildren.”
How rude! I want to shout. I would do anything to be as accomplished as Aunty Blessing. Who knows, maybe she struggled to settle down because men were intimidated by her? Back then, being a career-driven woman wasn’t as widely accepted as it is today.
“God, if only I had a photo of Alex.” Aunty Debbie slaps a hand to her head. “I will add him on Facebook. Your mother’s right. This stubbornness will get you nowhere.”
“Aunty, I appreciate the offer. It’s just—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Yinka! Stop being so goddamn closed-minded.” The outburst comes from Ola, who is now on her feet, hoisting Daniel on her hip. “No wonder you’re still single.” She hisses like one of those angry commuters after they fail to squeeze themselves into a packed train.
A lump the size of a melon fills my throat. Ola can be harsh sometimes, but she rarely raises her voice.
What did I do to deserve that?
Just as I swallow back tears, shrieks erupt from the living room. Fela Kuti’s “Water No Get Enemy” is playing in the background. But the screams sound like more than just the guests cheering at someone busting a sick dance move.
I clamber to my feet, avoiding Ola’s eyes as I rush out the door.
Back in the living room, there’s a huddle. Rachel’s here and she’s standing with her mum, Big Mama. The pair look excited.
“Yinka! You won’t believe what happened yesterday!” Rachel thrusts a hand forward and a diamond rock shines from her third finger. “I’m engaged!”
The plan
Thrusting my duvet to one side, I stare up at the ceiling, spread-eagled. Outside, the wind is whistling and rain is pattering against my window.
I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning, today’s events taunting me. After Rachel dropped her bombshell of an announcement, I didn’t stick around for long. I told her that I’d catch up with her over the phone, or next Friday when she and Gavesh are having their engagement party. Although whether she heard me is another question. She was too busy chatting with her BFF, Ola. Kemi was sad to see me go, but she understood. As always, she apologized for Aunty Debbie’s behavior.
“Yinka, I feel so bad,” she said as she walked me to the front door. “If I had known, I would have offered to pray.”
“Let’s face it, Kemi. No one can stop Aunty Debbie when she is on a roll.” I forced a small laugh. “Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault.”
As for Nana, my so-called BFF who was meant to be there for support, I texted her saying that I was leaving early and that she no longer needed to come. She messaged saying she was sorry and she’d see me tomorrow after church. Which will soon be today.
I toss again and stretch over to switch on my bedside lamp. I squint, catching sight of my dark reflection in the mirror.