Mum claps, then pats him on the shoulder. “Eh-hehhh. Very good. So, how did you learn Yoruba? Because my daughter here can’t speak it at all.”
“A little bit!” I squeak, and Mum makes a scoffing sound.
“Ehhhn, Alex.” She bats her lids. “Maybe one of these days you can, you know, teach my daughter?”
I press a finger to my temple. Someone shoot me now.
“Yinka.” Aunty Debbie steps in. I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for Aunty Debbie. “Alex just moved here from Bristol.”
“Bristol. Nice.” I’m pretending all this is new information, which means I seem to be nodding my head quite a lot.
“Yeah, I moved here for work.” He smiles. “I’m a website designer. How about you? What do you do?”
I stall, and Mum jumps right in and says, “She’s an investment banker. A top one, as a matter of fact. At Godfrey & Jackson. Shebi, you’ve heard of it? Now the other day, my daughter got a promotion, didn’t you, Yinka?”
Alex congratulates me. How do I stop this?
“I’m actually not an investment banker,” I croak, pulling down my sleeve. “Remember Mum, I work in operations—”
“Same thing.” Mum pushes out her lips. “Isn’t your employer an investment bank?”
“Y-y-es,” I stammer.
“So how’s the new job going?” This question comes from Aunty Debbie.
“And what’s the new role?” asks Alex.
I flicker between them, fake grinning. God, forgive me for what I’m about to do.
“Oh, I’m a . . . vice president in the operations team,” I say, suppressing a wince.
“Fancy.” Alex looks impressed. “Well done.”
“Thanks. So how did you find the service?” I quickly deflect.
“Loved it,” Alex replies without missing a beat. “In fact, this church kind of reminds me of my home church back in Bristol.”
“So you’ll come back next week?” Aunty Debbie flutters her lashes.
“Of course!” Alex turns to me. “Yinka, you’re a regular member, right?”
“She is!” Mum cries before shooting me a glare. “Now Alex”—she gives him a sweet smile—“you will stay for lunch, won’t you? We usually go for Chinese buffet, just down the road by Aldi. It’s the church favorite.”
Alex places a hand to his chest. “I would love to, Aunty, but sadly, I promised my brother that I’d help him with his uni project. Maybe next Sunday?” Alex turns to me when he says this and my belly flutters.
“Brilliant,” Aunty Debbie shrills while I’m trying to think of something to say. “Now we better get going. Tolu and I need to speak to Pastor about something.”
“Which something?” Mum looks confused, but thankfully, Aunty Debbie is already prodding her to move along.
As Alex and I watch Mum and Aunty Debbie navigate their way toward the center aisle, my first thought is, Thank God, then, What should I say to him?
“Sooo.” Alex speaks first.
I blink. God, he’s so damn sexy.
“You really don’t know any Yoruba?”
“A few words here and there.” I wave a vague hand. “And although my mum may say otherwise, she never really made an effort to teach me.”
Alex laughs, and I admire his symmetrical teeth. “Yinka. Your mum. She’s a character, she is.”
“Quite.” I blow out my cheeks. “Oh, and earlier, she said something to you in Yoruba and you said, ‘Thanks’？”
“Oh, she said I was handsome.” Alex swivels his head this way and that. “Don’t you agree?”
In my head, I cry, Hell yeah! but in real life I just roll my eyes.
He laughs. “Just kidding. Just kidding.”
Handsome and modest.
“So how come you speak Yoruba?” I ask, trying to not stare too much.
“I actually worked in Nigeria for a bit,” he replies. “A few years after I finished uni.”
I wait for him to start moving—we can walk and talk—but he stays put and carries on. He wants to talk to me! Alex tells me how he studied Computer Programming at Cardiff University before going to Lagos to work for his dad’s catering business, where he helped to set up the website, handled all the client affairs and gave a hand in the kitchen. When he arrived, his Yoruba was okay, but some of his dad’s clients didn’t take him seriously. So Alex practiced Yoruba, until one day, he surprised them by suddenly replying in his dad’s mother tongue. In a blink of an eye, they wanted to do business with him.
“What made you come back to the UK then?” I ask, trying not to get distracted by his kissable lips. “Let me guess, you missed the rain, huh?”
Alex’s expression changes but not in a good way.
“My sister passed away,” he says after clearing his throat. “My twin sister.”
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Car accident. I wanted to be close to my mum.”
“Alex, I’m so, so sorry.” I have a sudden urge to hug him. Instead, I say, “I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. My dad,” I clarify after he raises his brows. “Cancer. I was ten.”
“Damn. Sorry to hear that.” He blows out his cheeks. “Grief sucks. May I ask . . . does it get easier, you know, as the years go by?”
I give him a warm smile. “You learn to cope.”
For a hushed moment, Alex and I just stare at each other in the silence of unsaid words, and it’s . . . magical. It’s not forced or one-sided or awkward or stifling. It feels . . . it feels . . . genuine.
“We should probably get going.” My nerves get the better of me and I break the spell.
As we walk down our respective rows and reconvene in the center aisle, I suddenly realize how empty the hall is. We must’ve been talking for ages.
“So, what do you do for fun then?” Alex says in a cheerier tone.
“Oh, I like to eat out. Binge on Netflix . . . while I’m eating.” I chuckle.
“Yeah, I’m a foodie too,” he says, and I glance up at him. He turns to me. “I like to cook.”
“Oooh. What’s your specialty? Italian? Indian?”
“Come on, man. Nigerian. Always.”
Ah, yes. Of course.
“And how about you?” he asks as we reach the back of the hall. We take the turn toward the exit. “Do you like to cook? Can you make Nigerian food?”
“Well, um, to be honest with you . . .” Please, God, don’t let this be a deal-breaker. “I don’t really make Nigerian food. Because I often work late,” I add quickly. “By the time I get home, I’m shattered.”
“So what do you usually have for dinner?”
“Oh, something quick like pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“Or pasta. Or, if I really want to treat myself, I have a chicken dinner.”
“Nothing beats a chicken dinner,” Alex says, and I chuckle quietly to myself. He doesn’t need to know that I meant chicken and chips.
“Ooh, Yinka.” He comes to a stop, digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I was thinking, since I’m new to London, maybe we can exchange numbers?” Then quickly, he adds, “Only if you want to, of course.”