Using the flipchart paper and Post-it notes that I nicked from Godfrey—hey, might as well make the most of that awful legacy—I draw up my new plan.
Standing back, I tilt my head and stare at the neon-colored squares that are stuck on the paper behind my bedroom door.
OPERATION WEDDING DATE: MY PLAN TO WIN ALEX AND HAVE A DATE FOR RACHEL’S WEDDING IN JULY!!!
OBJECTIVES
TASKS
DEADLINE
KPIs
1. Be more attractive
? Buy a weave （preferably a long weave） ? Wear more stylish clothes—NO cardigans permitted. Look into borrowing Nana’s African print clothes ? Wear more makeup—not too much. Keep it natural.
? Increase my bum size by eating more pounded yam and doing 50 squats daily / bum workout on YouTube
ASAP!
? Alex compliments me
? I catch Alex staring at me
2. Be more in touch with Nigerian culture
? Learn how to cook a variety of Nigerian foods properly ? Tell Alex （in passing） what Nigerian food I’ve had for dinner ? Learn a few Yoruba words—YouTube? Language app? Ask Kemi for Nollywood film recommendations???
Ongoing
? Alex is curious about my cooking and wants to taste it. We spend more time together ? Alex and I have better banter
Black marker still in hand, I read over the Post-its. Perhaps I’m taking my bridesmaid’s goal a bit too far? What would Nana think if she saw this? Or Aunty Blessing? Or Kemi? I know what that feminist woman on Quora would say. She would accuse me of being desperate and sad for wrapping my life around a man and being a disgrace to all womankind.
I sigh. This plan does look a bit desperate. Okay, majorly desperate. But let’s face it, every woman has at some point hatched a plan to win over their crush. The only difference in my case is, it’s written on neon stationery, as opposed to being an accumulation of thoughts and ideas swirling around in my head.
Deciding it’s okay to feel proud of my plan, I scan the task column for a good place to start. Hmm. What about . . . pounded yam and squats?
* * *
—
Twenty minutes and thirty squats later, I’m sitting in the kitchen at the breakfast table, struggling to finish my pounded yam. Ugh, why is it so soggy?
I shove the mash into my mouth—since Mum’s not around, I’m using a spoon—and I’m eating it with a pool of beef stew that Nana made for dinner last night.
A moment later, I hear the slam of the front door, followed by the pattering of Nana’s footsteps and the clattering of her keys.
“What is that?”
I follow her disgusted gaze as it lands on my plate—specifically, to the mash beside the stew. Despite my best efforts, it resembles mushy peas.
“It’s supposed to be pounded yam.” I sigh, and force another scoop into my mouth.
Nana laughs. And I mean, proper laughs so hard that I see her fillings.
“What happened to pizza and takeaways?” She pulls out her phone and takes a snap of my dish.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to share it on my Insta Stories.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Chill out, girl. I’m joking. I can’t promise you that I won’t use it for future bribing purposes, however.” She lowers herself onto the opposite stool and I narrow my eyes at her. “Anyway, how was your day?” she says.
“Productive.” I cleanse my palate with some orange juice. “Although, I still need to do more research into the company, I think. And also—”
I stop. Is “Operation Wedding Date” something I want to share with Nana?
No. I push my plate to one side. She won’t get it. I could do without the lecture too.
Duh yuh waah your ier dun?
TUESDAY
Peckham Beauty Afro-Caribbean Hair & Cosmetics
26 Peckham Rye Lane
Tuesday 2 February
7.03 p.m.
x 2 Yaki 1B 16-inch Human Hair ￡57.98
x 2 X-pressions Kanekalon braiding hair ￡3.50
Professional Hair Extensions Thread ￡0.99
Sleek True Color Lip Gloss ￡4.99
Jasmine’s Black Lengthening Mascara ￡3.00
Luster’s Pink Original Hairspray ￡5.49
Total ￡75.95
I stroll from the cashier, receipt in hand, and blink. Then I blink again.
Seventy-five quid!!!
How the heck did I just spend over seventy-five quid on hair and makeup? I kiss my teeth.
I really can’t afford to spend money willy-nilly right now. Not when I don’t have a job.
I swivel around, marching back to join the queue, but it now seems to have doubled in length. Ah well. It’s an investment in my future. I shove the receipt into my pocket and walk down the aisle to find JoBrian. I really didn’t want them to come with me to the hair shop, and specifically told them that we should meet at seven fifteen at Costa. But en route from Peckham Rye station, I saw them across the road, and although I tried to walk away and pretend I hadn’t seen them, they began to call my name as though I was a celebrity. Now, here I am, hurrying down the wigs aisle because Brian has decided to try on a pixie one.
“Yinka, this place is like Ikea,” he cries. “But . . . for hair!”
“Put it back,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder, worried we might get chucked out. The South Asian man from behind the counter is glaring at us.
“So, what did you get then?” Joanna noses into my plastic bag.
“Just some hair extensions,” I reply, not sure Joanna would get it if I said, “Some weave.” She’d probably think I was going medieval and trying to make a loom.
“We good to go?” Brian has returned the wig to its rightful owner—a yellow mannequin with the tiniest nose.
I look into my bag again. “Ooh, I forgot to buy a hairnet. One sec.”
I wander down the aisle filled with skincare products. I see shea butter and cocoa butter and aloe vera and— I stop.
Lightening creams.
My eyes widen. And they’re not even tucked away or hidden on the bottom shelf. They’re out in the open, lots of them in every form—cream, soap, lotion, serum. Sporting words such as “bright” and “fair,” and on one particular product, “white.”
My jaw clenches, and I feel my fingernails dig into my palms.
“Let’s go,” I tell JoBrian after I return to the wigs aisle. Brian is holding up another mannequin and pretending to be a ventriloquist.
“Did you get the hairnet already?” Joanna asks.
I shake my head. “The queue was too long.” I check my phone and sigh when I see the text from Nana. “Sorry, guys, my best friend locked herself out. She’s the one who’s living with me for the moment. She’s waiting for us at Costa.”
As soon as we leave the hair shop, we bump straight into a woman wearing leggings and the biggest gold earrings I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Duh yuh waah your ier dun?” she asks in strong patois. I shake my head.
Barely three steps later, I’m confronted with the same question.
“No, thank you, Aunty,” I tell her, bending my knees a little, then rushing off.
“Wait, is that your aunty?” Joanna says after she catches up, raising her voice over the loud sounds of plucked chickens getting butchered.
“Jo, every Black woman in Peckham is my aunty,” I tell her, and they both laugh.