After the voice note comes to an end, I stare at my phone, dazed. Femi’s WhatsApp display picture is of him and Latoya and I fight the urge to view it in full-size. Instead, I clamber out of my bed, flick on the lights and fetch my notebook and pen. Drastic action is needed. ASAP.
OPERATION WEDDING DATE: MY PLAN TO HAVE A DATE FOR RACHEL’S WEDDING IN JULY!!!
OBJECTIVES
TASKS
DEADLINE
KPIs
1. Meet a guy in person
? Make an effort to speak to any single men at Rachel’s engagement party
? Next Friday
? I exchange numbers with a guy
2. Meet a guy virtually
? Sign up to online dating if I don’t meet anyone at Rachel’s engagement party
? End of Jan
? I connect with a guy I’ve met online ? We exchange numbers, speak on the phone and go on a date
3. Take up Aunty Debbie’s offer and meet Alex!!!
? Go to Mum’s house tomorrow and let her know I’ve changed my mind ? Attend All Welcome Church on Sunday
? This weekend
? God knows
You’re so British
SATURDAY
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
I’m in a rush to get to Mum’s by one o’clock. I struggled back to sleep last night and didn’t wake up till about eleven this morning. Shortly after I’d texted Mum to ask if I could come over, I received a call from a slightly hungover Rachel.
“Don’t send him a voice note back,” she said after I told her that Femi had left me one. “Send him a message. A short, cordial message.”
I got off the call and sent Femi a reply. Well, I did after three attempts.
Hey Femi. Hope you slept well. Congrats again on the engagement! I’m so happy for you! Latoya seems really nice. And yes, you’ll meet my boyfriend at the wedding. Hopefully, he won’t be sick again. Lol. Have a safe flight back.
Showered, dressed and ready, I throw myself into my car, then I remember: my annual inspection is overdue. So I hop on a very busy train from Denmark Hill to Peckham Rye station, which thankfully is a short commute.
Leaving the station, I dodge my way down a busy tunnel with cafés and market stalls on either side, then I reach the high street where there are several Afro-Caribbean hair shops. Just as I’m passing one, I’m ambushed by a woman lurking outside.
“Darlin’， darlin.’ Do you want your hair done?” The woman has super-thin braids and what sounds like a Ghanaian accent.
I sigh and shake my head. This is a common occurrence whenever I visit Peckham. Just because I wear my hair natural doesn’t mean I want it done.
Quickening my steps, I pass a market stall that’s been there for ages, still selling those Ghana-must-go bags—but damn, were there always this many pound stores? I pass the McDonald’s, remembering a fight that broke out inside once, before bustling through the human traffic—the preachers, the pushchairs, the shoppers with bulging plastic bags who always seem to congregate outside the massive Primark—and I’m approaching Costa, turning to peer inside.
It is all lace wigs, hijabs, Rasta hats and hoodies out here, but inside the coffee shop is a different picture. I see beanie hats, denim jackets and white socks poking out of Converse. Peckham has changed. A lot.
As I near the pedestrian crossing, I catch a glimpse of Peckham Arch—an outdoor platform, its roof shaped like a dome. I’m pleased to see the library, my favorite place, still up and running, scaffolding-free. It is the heart and soul of the community.
As a kid, Daddy would rescue me from the pressures at home by taking me there—he was always, “Just do your best,” while Mum was more, “You must get A’s.” Upstairs in the children’s section, we would huddle on a beanbag as I would read aloud a Jacqueline Wilson book.
I’m about to cross the road when I remember Mum’s text message, and I make a quick stop at the African supermarket. After purchasing a bag of pounded yam, I power-walk all the way to Mum’s, thinking about how I’m going to bring up Alex with her.
* * *
—
As soon as I enter Mum’s—a third-floor apartment which is still decent enough in its appearance that the council hasn’t knocked it down yet—the aroma of dried crayfish hits me. Then I hear Mum’s singing, loud and hoarse. I shut the door quickly before the neighbors complain; the metal letter plate makes a loud clattering sound.
“Ah, ah! Why are you slamming my door like that?” Mum’s voice reverberates from the kitchen. “Are you now an immigration officer?”
I roll my eyes. After wrestling out of my coat, I fling it on the stand nearby that is in front of a portrait of a blue-eyed Jesus. Mum emerges.
“Hello, Mum.” I genuflect to greet her in the traditional Yoruba way, and then I hand her the shopping bag. She pokes her nose into it and frowns.
“Ah, you bought the expensive brand,” she says.
“Sorry.” I rub the back of my neck. “Mum, are you busy right now?”
At the same time, she says, “Your sister is in the living room.”
“Kemi’s here?” My eyes widen. I love Kemi but I really don’t want to talk about my love life in front of her. I mean, it’s embarrassing enough that she’s half a decade younger than me and already married.
“What is it?” Mum asks.
“Oh, nothing. It can wait.”
She takes the turn to the kitchen, leaving me to squeeze past a broken drawer that she refuses to throw away.
“Fine girl, Yinka!” Kemi says when she sees me.
I spread my arms and we hug. She smells like cocoa butter. “I swear, this bump of yours is growing every single day.”
“It’s the puff-puff.” She beams, then pats her stomach and we both laugh.
“What you up to?” I pluck a fluff from her short, relaxed hair.
“Just looking at old baby photos,” she says. “You know, to get an idea of what the baby might look like.” She nods to the cabinet where there are dozens of family photos crammed on each shelf and fighting for space. My throat catches as I spot one of Daddy, leaning against a vinyl record player. Like me, he is skinny in stature and has skin the color of coffee beans. Kemi is more like Mum. Fleshy and mocha.
I was ten when Daddy passed away. Kemi was only five. It was cancer that took him. Prostate cancer.
When Daddy was alive, he was my everything. My comforter. My best friend. He made me feel . . . seen. In primary school, I got bullied for having such dark skin. “Dog poo” I was called. I kept it to myself and would cry in bed, and yet somehow, Daddy always knew what to say. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he would often say to me. “Yinka, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, okay? Remember what I told you? What did I tell you, ehn?” And between sobs, I would say, “The midnight sky is just as beautiful as the sunrise.”
There have been many times when I’ve wondered how my life would be if Daddy was still around today. Though I’m not sure I could’ve asked him for advice on my love life.
“So, how’s things?” Kemi asks, stealing my attention. “Ooh, Mum said you got a promotion.”