“No, I think it’s a pretty cool idea,” says Nana, and my brows shoot up in surprise. “And I have a goal. One that I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” She takes a breath. “This year, I want to officially launch my fashion business.”
“Oh, Nana, that’s amazing!” I lean sideways and hug her.
“I’m planning to host a fashion show,” she carries on animatedly. “Sometime this summer. Obviously way before your wedding,” she adds quickly, nodding to Rachel.
Rachel blinks in shock. “Err . . . that’s not what I had in mind. But you’re already making the bridesmaids’ dresses, so I guess I can’t object. On one condition”—she fluffs her hair—“I get to be one of your models.”
Nana rolls her eyes. “Fine. Okay, that’s my bridesmaid’s goal sorted. Yinka, how about you? I was going to suggest that you join Instagram, but it looks as though you’ve done that already.” She laughs.
“And remember, it’s got to be relevant to the wedding,” Ola interrupts, just as I’m about to answer. “We all know that you’re doing well, what with your recent promotion.”
“You got a promotion!” Rachel’s voice makes the nearby party of four turn toward us. “Congratulations, hun! Why didn’t you say anything?”
I glance over at Nana: the only one who knows the truth.
“Thanks,” I mutter, glancing down. “But really, it’s no big deal. It was only a small promotion—”
“Well, my mum didn’t think so.”
I stare at Ola.
“Anyway,” I say quickly, feeling my irritation rising. “I already know what my goal is. My goal is to have a date for the wedding.” And get a job, I think. God, I need to smash this Oscar Larrson interview.
Rachel claps in excitement. “Your date could be fine boy Alex.”
Nana nods. “I’m proud of you, sis. You’re actually putting herself out there.”
“Yeah, I’m tired of my mum and aunties praying over my love life as though I’m terminally ill.”
“You know they’re only going to call Alex your huzband, right?” Rachel lets out a booming laugh.
“Well, beats being prayed for at every family function,” I say, wiping my hands with a napkin. “I’m looking forward to the days when that becomes a thing of the past. Anyway, how about you?” I glance over at Ola, who is quietly sipping her drink with a straw.
Ola lets out a small laugh. “Well, if anyone can tell me how to get my kids to tidy their room, then that’s my goal.”
“How about doing an online course?” I suggest. “It’s really flexible so you can study at home.” Ola’s laugh halts like a driver slamming on the brakes. “Loads of people enroll to open universities these days. You could even resume your degree.”
My intention was honestly to be helpful—after all, Nana’s goal was personal—but from the glare in Ola’s eyes, which have now become two slits, she clearly doesn’t see it this way.
“Are you having a laugh?” she says, her voice like ice. “Sorry, how do you expect me to study for a degree when I have three kids at home, huh? And what’s wrong with being a stay-at-home mum?” She throws her napkin on the table and Nana jerks. “Jeez, Yinka. It’s bad enough that my mum’s constantly at my throat, but now I have to explain myself to you.”
“Sorry, it was just a suggestion,” I manage over the salsa music. Ola scoffs and rolls her eyes.
“Yinka, you have no idea what it’s like being a full-time mum. No idea!”
“Okay, let’s forget about the bridesmaids’ goals for now,” Rachel says, glancing at the nearby tables.
Nana tries to lighten the mood. “Girls,” she’s saying, pressing her palms together as though she’s a monk. “Remember your energies. Now on the count of three, everyone take a deep breath in.”
By two, Ola is already on her feet.
“I’m off!” she spits angrily.
“Seriously?” Rachel exclaims, and Ola demonstrates how serious she is by wrestling her scarf around her neck.
“Ola, you don’t have to go. I said I’m sorry.”
But Ola ignores me, scooting out of the booth.
“I’d better go after her,” says Rachel, bundling her coat and stacks of magazines to her chest. “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah.” In a blink, she’s gone.
“What just happened here?” I wheel around to Nana, who looks remarkably calm, still chewing her food. “How did we get from ten to one hundred?”
“You know Ola has a temper,” says Nana, reaching over to grab Ola’s plate. She slides her remaining chips onto her own. “The fresh air will calm her down.”
I glance over at Rachel’s and Ola’s empty seats, my heart heavy in my chest. “It’s not fair. She was being rude to me.”
No longer hungry, I push my plate to one side. I need to learn to stick up for myself. I’m no longer that bullied little girl. But sometimes, sadly, I still feel like her.
Abeg. Give her a discount, ehn?
SATURDAY
Am I a pushover?
After I helped Nana move her belongings into my spare room, we drove to Deptford—the Mecca for ankara fabrics—as Nana wanted to buy some material for a particular dress she plans to make for her fashion show. With the exception of her stinking out my second bedroom with her sage and palo santo incense, the move has gone pretty well. We’re in a small fabric shop now, strolling in between the aisles while I make another attempt to get ahold of Ola. There are tons of patterned fabrics, all folded on top of each other on giant wide shelves. I finger one sparkly lace material with silver swirly patterns while I listen to the ringing down the line.
“Any luck?” Nana asks.
I hold up a finger, phone to my ear. I hear a click.
“Hi, this is Ola. I’m unable to reach the phone right now—”
Disheartened, I end the call.
“Look, there’s not much you can do,” says Nana. “You’ve called her like three times already.”
“Actually, five,” I mutter.
“Just give her some space.” She sighs. “You know what Ola’s like when she’s in her feelings. She’ll come around . . . eventually.”
Nodding, I put my phone away. I was really hoping to patch things up with Ola. But Nana’s right—whenever we’ve fallen out in the past it’s always me rushing to make up and her holding out. The girl needs to be angry for a while.
I step to one side so that an aunty can pass, bending my knees to greet her. Meanwhile, Nana pulls out a sparkly orangey-gold fabric with splashes of gems and flower-shaped appliqué on it.
“I can’t believe you have a design in mind already.”
“Trust me, girl,” she says. “I’ve racked up tons of ideas for my fashion business over the years. I was just too chicken to do anything about them. But now . . .” She winks at me. “I’m putting myself out there too.”
Nana continues to browse the shelves, like she’s looking for a book in the library. She bends, pulls out different fabrics and ponders for a moment before returning them.