ALEX
Staff conference was decent
Not gonna lie . . . Nearly nodded off a few times lol Enjoyed the free food doh
And no worries! Shall we just meet there?
YINKA Sounds good to me
So what you up to?
Lemme guess. You’re either eating or cooking right?
ALEX
Haha! You know me well
Just had ofada rice
Was fire!
YINKA
Arrrgh, you’re making me jelly!!!
Remind me again, what’s ofada rice?
ALEX
Are you sure you’re Nigerian?
YINKA
Covers face
I forgot! Lool
ALEX
U have it with stew with different meat and fish in it Mad spicy
But imma Naija boy
YINKA
LMAO!
ALEX
How bout you?
What did you have?
Or having for dinner?
YINKA
I’m out at the moment, so probs a takeaway lol
Got the charm and ting, innit
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A brisk wind nearly causes my eyes to water. Maybe wearing mascara wasn’t such a great idea. I crane my neck and glance around, Peckham library’s pastel green exterior glinting in the background.
Peckham Arch has been transformed into something else. In one section, there’s a group of volunteers sorting out donated items. And not too far from them is a row of volunteers behind massive chafing dishes and metallic steel pots. Hands clad in rubber gloves, they ladle food onto plates, serving two winding lines of rough sleepers. Along the outskirts are three portable toilets, a tea and coffee station and what looks like an information stand. And not too far from the dining area, made up of cushions and beanbags, are a handful of volunteers stuffing leaflets into tote bags.
My heart swells. I’ve missed this kind of work. Every evening I volunteered at Sanctuary’s outreach, I would go home happy, even if I’d had a tough day at work. There’s something about helping people that’s good for the soul.
I look across the platform. It’s nice to see such a large turnout, and I love the additions of the massive beanbags too.
“Yinka! You came!”
I turn to see Derek walking toward me. Now he’s power-walking. Jogging. He hugs me.
Instead of his usual Sunday all-black uniform, Derek has on a high-vis jacket. He’s holding a clipboard and there’s a walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt loop.
“I thought you had an interview to prepare for?” he says as I straighten my new white blouse under my new trench coat, courtesy of ASOS’s clearance section. Tonight, I’m going for a sophisticated, womanly look, as opposed to my usual casual comfort. It is a bit chilly, though. I hope I see Alex soon so that I can button up.
“Oh, I’ve been preparing all week. Is it okay if I still help out?”
“Sure. Of course. Let me just add your name to the registration list.” Derek lifts up his clipboard. I try to scan the names upside down.
“Or I can do it,” I offer. “Saves me from having to spell out my last name, eh.”
Derek shrugs and hands me his clipboard and pen.
I scan the list. Ah-hah! Fifth name down: Alex Balogun. He hasn’t been ticked off yet.
“Anywhere on the top is fine,” pipes Derek, and I scribble my name at the top and add a tick for good measure.
“Where do you want me?” I ask. “I’m willing to help out anywhere.”
Derek scratches a bald spot. “Now, let’s see . . . we’ve got quite a number of people helping out with the mains. How about dessert?”
“Dessert sounds great,” I chime, maybe a tad too enthusiastically for his question.
Derek smiles . . . smiling . . . still smiling.
“Er, shall we head there now?” I suggest, turning to walk, even though I don’t know where I’m going.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” Derek takes a few steps, then stops. “Oh, yeah. Where did you go last Sunday? At the restaurant.”
I narrow my eyes. Then I slap my forehead.
“Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry. You were getting me another plate of food, weren’t you?”
Derek nods.
I cover my mouth feeling incredibly guilty.
“Aww, don’t worry about it,” he says. “I get it. I’m sure you wanted to leave after what happened.”
“But still! I should have told you.”
“Honestly, Yinka. It’s fine.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and Derek smiles. Again.
“Dessert,” I remind him.
“Oh, yes. Come with me.”
I follow him, beaming at every person I walk past. And then I hear a familiar giggle.
Vanessa.
Dammit. Derek must have invited her last Sunday too. That man is thorough. And of course, she’s carrying a load of cake boxes because this is what she does for a living.
Feeling a rush of panic, I jump in front of Derek so that my back is facing her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I squeak. “I want to do something else. Maybe something on that side.”
Derek follows his gaze to where my finger is pointing at. “Leaflet-stuffing?” He sounds as though I’ve just turned down a free holiday.
I give a weak nod. “Well, I did say I was willing to do anything.”
* * *
—
The first thing I notice when Derek escorts me to my newly assigned area is that there is no system. Well, unless you call “just make more of a mess” a system.
Lounging on a blanket are four volunteers, all wearing tracksuits. None of them look a day over eighteen. They’re sitting around the pile of leaflets as though it’s a badly made campfire. I watch them for a second. They wade through the pile finding one of each leaflet, then stuff a tote bag, crumpling the corners as they shove them inside, before flinging it in the general direction of a heap of tote bags that looks worse than a pile of laundry. Oh, dear.
Derek waves. “Hey, everyone. This is Yinka.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I stiffen. “Yinka’s going to be helping you guys out today.”
The four volunteers look up and stare at me like neutral face emojis.
“Hi,” I say cheerily, lifting my hand to wave, but also if I’m honest to shrug Derek off.
The teens murmur, “Hey,” as though they’d rather be doing anything else. I wonder if their parents forced them to come.
Derek turns to me, then says, “Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Then suddenly his eyes shoot up to a spot behind me.
I turn around to see a tall Black man wearing a hoody with a picture of Nina Simone.
“Yinka!” he says.
I frown. Who is this guy?
“It’s Don. Donovan.”
My eyes widen. “Ohhhh. My bad, I didn’t recognize you. Long time. How’s it going?”
“Good to see you, man,” he says in his thick south London accent. Then to my surprise, he folds me into a hug and I get a waft of his Lynx body spray.
“Wow, you guys know each other?” Derek says, looking between us.
“Yeah . . .” My mind is still racing—is it really Donovan? He looks so different.
“We were on a gap year ting together,” Donovan is now saying, much more enthusiastically than me. “That was around, what, ten years ago? I’m surprised I haven’t seen you since, you know. You still live in south London?”