“How will you save for a mortgage?” she rebutted after I tried to show her a job ad for an entry-level position at a national homeless charity called Sanctuary. “A position that is paying less than minimum wage. Why would you give up Godfrey for that, ehn? You want to live at home with me forever?”
I kept my secured place at Godfrey. I told myself that I would work there for five years, save hard, get a mortgage and bounce. With all the transferable skills I had gained, I would find an operational role in the charity sector, or even better, a role where I would get to work directly with the people. And for many years, I was on track. I even volunteered at one of Sanctuary’s local homeless outreaches. Every Saturday for nearly three years, come rain or sun. I got a mortgage—thank God—and moved out of Mum’s at the age of twenty-seven. Then over time, I don’t know how it happened, but I became reluctant to leave. I had risen in the ranks. I didn’t want to throw all I had achieved away. And honestly, I felt comfortable in the private sector. Since then, I haven’t volunteered at all.
“What about the others you went to Peru with?” Aunty Blessing interrupts my thoughts. “What are they doing now? Wasn’t the other Black person from around here? You could speak to him about jobs.”
“Who, Donovan?” I shrug. “Beats me. After I returned, I lost contact with all of them.” It’s strange that I haven’t bumped into Donovan or Hailey during the last ten years, as they both lived in south London. Not that it’s a shame on the Donovan front—he was the one I liked the least.
“Anyway, that’s in the past,” I say finally, raising my eyes to meet my Aunty’s. “I’d rather stick to the banking sector. It’s what I’m good at.”
“Well, if that’s what you want.” Aunty Blessing gives a light shrug then rubs her hooded eyes. “Right,” she says, standing up. She pats the back of the chair. “Come on. Get. Don’t you have some job hunting to do? Oi, don’t give me that face. Here, you can use my laptop.” She scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “That’s my password. And that’s a number five, not an S.”
I drag my feet to her desk.
“I’ll be in the living room if you need me, okay?”
“Yes, Aunty.”
* * *
—
An hour later, I’ve updated my LinkedIn page and sent a couple of recruitment agencies my CV. Mentally unable to do more （or rather stubbornly refusing to） I log into Facebook and stalk the two of my gap year buddies I can find—Hailey and Jojo—until I’m bored stiff of looking at weddings and babies.
Then, as though I’m looking for something illegal, I quickly type “Femi Ajaye” into the search bar.
“Nostalgic,” his latest post reads. I screw up my nose.
It’s attached to a photo of his palm holding out a Yorkie chocolate bar. Femi hardly posts on Facebook. I know this not because I stalk him （honest）， but thanks to his lack of presence on my notifications.
I rub my chin. Maybe he’s missing the UK, because from what I know, they do not sell Yorkie bars in the U.S.
Unable to stop myself, I trawl through his timeline and all his tagged photos. Annoyingly, most of his albums and status updates go back to two years ago. Nana is right. No one really uses Facebook any more. Though I still find it strange that out of all the things he could have posted, he decided to post a picture of my favorite chocolate.
I wonder if he’s missing home . . . his former life . . . me.
“Well, kiss my arse, Femi,” I say aloud with a stagy cackle. “You made your bed, so go and lie in it.”
Just one last look at his photos—God, he does look good with a beard—then I hear a pinging sound. It sounds like one of those notifications you get when you’re sent an instant message, though not on Facebook.
My eyes pan across the top of the screen. Ugh, why does Aunty Blessing leave so many tabs open? No wonder the Internet is slow.
The pinging sound continues. Hmm. It could be one of those spam sites—like the ones that pop up suddenly when you’re trying to stream a movie.
Clicking through each tab—Amazon, Twitter, chin hair removal?—I’m about to give up and hit the mute button when I stop.
Infiltrating the entire screen are lots of thumbnails of . . . men.
“Elite professional dating?” I gape.
The men on the screen look old enough to be my dad. There’s Black, White, Asian and Mixed. On the left-hand side is a thumbnail of Aunty Blessing and alongside it, her username.
O-kaay. Aunty Blessing is online dating. For some reason, I’m shocked. She always comes across so . . . so . . . sure of herself. A happy, single, independent woman.
My chest tugs a little. I didn’t know that Aunty Blessing still longs to find love. I thought she had accepted her life as a single woman. Preferred it, even. Then again, I’ve never asked her.
The pinging sound goes off again, and this time, I know exactly where it’s coming from. It’s from a man called Jazz, who, as I hover the mouse over the screen, is direct messaging Aunty Blessing.
“Let me just get a pen.” I hear Aunty Blessing’s voice as she approaches the room.
Shoot. I scramble to find the LinkedIn page, clicking blindly through each tab.
I hear the door swoosh open, then, “Sorry to disturb. Just need to grab something.” By this point, I’ve swiveled my chair around, my back facing her laptop.
Her phone pressed to her chest, she leans over her desk. There’s a clattering sound of pens clinking in her mug. I wait for her to stand, but she doesn’t.
“Yinka!” she cries.
“Aunty, I can explain . . .” I start, and swivel around. I’m about to waffle my way through breaching her privacy, then I realize what’s on the screen.
“Why are you on Facebook?” she demands. “On Femi’s profile!”
I laugh in relief.
Aunty Blessing blinks. “Yinka!” Then to the person on the other end of the phone, she says, “Sorry, I’m just reprimanding my niece.”
“I was on a break,” I explain. I log out of Facebook and reopen the LinkedIn page. “There’s nothing to it. I was bored.”
Aunty Blessing looks me up and down, then with a pen in hand, she leaves the room and I hear her say into the phone, “Sorry about that.”
I listen for the pattering of footsteps. I think she’s downstairs now.
Not long after she has gone, the pinging sound returns, and this time, I immediately hit the mute button.
“That was close,” I sigh, slumping back in my chair.
A real honest-to-God pumping party
FRIDAY
History Ctrl+H
Recently closed
How to approach a guy like a don—YourTango
Relationship expert gives tips on how to meet a guy in REAL life—Daily Mail
WE’RE ON THE ROOF! COME ON UP:）
I stare at the note scribbled in thick black marker, stuck to the front door of Rachel and Gavesh’s apartment.
Here I was looking forward to a nice, cozy gathering inside, and now I have to go all the way upstairs and hang out in the freezing cold. The bag of “buy one get one free” beverages that I bought from Tesco’s earlier is already beginning to hurt my arm as I toddle down the hallway, jab the button to the lift and enter.