Nana nods slowly.
“But then sometimes she was great.” I clear my throat. “You know when I told you I got teased for having dark skin? Well, Ola stuck up for me. Cussed the girls out.”
Nana is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, she was like that in college too. Hey, remember that time when she got into it with the canteen guy?”
“Oh, yeah! When he tried to short-change me by 50p, right?”
Nana laughs. “Ola would not let it go.”
We both laugh.
I sit back in my chair and sigh. “Do you know what? I was really looking forward to going to uni with Ola, you know. I thought with Rachel at Aston, and the fact that we both got into Oxford, we could, I dunno, bond a bit more. But then she met Jon, and we all know how the story ended. To be honest, I’d say things between us got worse, especially after I graduated. Aunty Debbie never stopped going on about it.”
I look out of the window, which is pretty much taken up by a Jamaican flag. Hearing myself talk about this stuff out loud makes me realize how long I’ve buried my feelings. How have I managed to have this weirdly dysfunctional, functioning relationship with my own cousin?
“And don’t forget, she’s a Virgo,” Nana says. “Virgos have a tendency to come across as cold sometimes, but that’s only because they’re trying to protect themselves. Anyway, I’ll stop.”
I laugh. “Let’s talk about something else—your business. What’s the plan? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Nana tucks in her chair so that the customer behind her can pass. I eye his plate. Curry goat with rice and peas. Yum.
“A’ight, I need to find a venue, then hold a model casting at some point. And obviously make the clothes. The designs are pretty much done. I actually sketched them a few months back. Ooh, guess what I’m calling my collection?” She doesn’t give me time to answer. “Queen Mother,” she says with a proud smile.
“Queen Mother? What, like the Queen of England?”
Nana laughs. “Nooo. I’m drawing inspiration from my Ghanaian heritage. In precolonial times, Queen Mothers were female leaders in the village who had massive influence. Then the White Man came along, and their power basically died. But over the years, there’s been a resurgence.” She raises her drink. “My collection is a tribute to them. The powerful, badass women, and the village of men and women they help raise.”
I clink my can against hers. “Nana, that sounds dope. I love it. I know you’ll smash it.”
“But that’s all the fun stuff,” she carries on. “There’s also the boring bits, like setting up a limited company and finding sponsorship, which, by the way, I have no idea how to do.”
“Oh, my Aunty Blessing can help you with that,” I say. “You know my Aunty Blessing, the barrister, right? She’s super-savvy and has loads of connections. I’ll give her a call later tonight.”
Nana looks relieved. “Amazing. Thanks, I owe you one.”
For the next five minutes, I happily listen to Nana, feeling mega-proud and inspired. She’s decided to call her fashion label Nana Badu, which I thought was fitting given that Nana’s a huge fan of Neo-soul artist and fashion icon Erykah Badu and she’s already set up an Instagram page.
She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. “Now, let’s talk about your bridesmaid’s goal.” She exaggerates her curiosity by batting her lashes. “Tell me. How’s things going with Alex? Has he been in touch since he messaged you yesterday?”
“Not yet,” I say, and my shoulders slump. I reach for my phone to double-check, and realize I have a WhatsApp notification.
After opening the app, I freeze.
“What is it?” Nana says.
“He—he messaged me.” Dazed, I gaze down at my phone; I have three unread messages.
“？‘Hey, Yinka,’？” I read aloud. “？‘How’s your week been? Up for lunch tomorrow after church?’？”
I look over at Nana again, her eyes still wide.
“He wants to see me!”
Dutty people
SUNDAY
ALEX
Hey, up for meeting before church starts?
Will save us from having to look for each other after the service
YINKA
Morning
Yeah, sounds good
Meet you at the lobby, say 10.50?
ALEX
Cool
Alex and I look around from our place by the buffet, gobsmacked. Every single table in All Welcome Church’s favorite Chinese restaurant is occupied. Around us, a throng of aunties wearing shiny gèlès are huddling by the steaming dishes, and I can hear at least three different African languages overlapping each other.
“Wow,” I exhale. “How did they get here so fast?”
“Beats me,” says Alex. “Literally. They beat me to it.”
I laugh. Sounds like a joke I would have made.
After the service ended, we had headed straight here. Though excited, I couldn’t help but worry about my outfit. At the last moment I’d slipped on my cardigan, though I wasn’t too sure if it went well with my polka dot top, so I decided I would keep my jacket on at all times. As we walked and chatted, Alex told me about his week—despite being a recent hire, he’s already working late.
“But I love it,” he gushed as we ambled along the pavement. “In fact, to be honest with you, I choose to stay late.”
“Really?” Never during my time at Godfrey would I say I enjoyed working late. Ever.
“I don’t think we’re going to find anywhere to sit,” Alex says now, as a waft of chow mein and satay sauce fills my nostrils.
“Yeah,” I give in, nodding. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
I shoot a quick glance at him. He’s wearing a salmon-pink shirt （nice） under a smart navy jacket （love） and is that a muscly pec I see?
“So,” he says and claps, and my eyes dart up to his face. “Any places around here that you would recommend?”
Quickly, I try to pull up a mental map and identify any restaurants or pubs in the area. But my brain is too busy being mesmerized by his pink bottom lip.
“I know,” Alex says suddenly. “How about we get a takeaway, like chicken and chips?”
I think I hear the heavens open. The angels are actually singing.
“That sounds perfect,” I squeak. “There’s a Chicken Cottage not too far from here. By the way, do you like burger sauce?”
Alex stares at me. “Yinka!” He laughs. “I was only joking. I mean, who would want to eat that junk?”
I chuckle. “Well, um . . . I was joking too.” I scratch my ear. “Obviously.” I’m about to ask him where he wants to go, when I do a double-take.
Sauntering toward me is Vanessa, the girl I used to babysit—the one making Rachel’s wedding cake—only she’s not a little girl any more. She’s a full-fledged woman.
“Aunty Yinka! So nice to see you!” Vanessa smothers me in a perfumey hug.
“Well, haven’t you grown.” And by grown, I mean genetically morphed. Vanessa looks like one of those video vixens in hip hop music videos. While I take in her growth spurt, I notice that her gaze is now directed above my head.