“I dunno. I just . . . fancied a change, I suppose.” I embark on the challenge of threading the needle. It takes me three, no four, actually, five attempts. I pull down the thread until it reaches several inches before snipping the end and handing it to her.
“Ooh, before I forget.” She takes the threaded needle over my shoulder. “Your friend Nana called me this afternoon. We had a good chat.”
“Nana called you?” Instinctively, I turn my head, and Aunty Blessing promptly turns me back.
“She had a few questions about setting up a business.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot I gave her your number. Were you able to help her?”
“We talked about bookkeeping and tax returns, you know, the sort of things she would need to do as a business owner. She admitted it went over her head, though—bless her—so she’s going to pop by tomorrow.”
“Amazing. Thank you, Aunty. I know she’ll really appreciate it.”
I try my best to keep my head still as Aunty Blessing sews the weave onto the back of my head. Huh, whaddaya know? It’s not at all painful.
“Did she mention she needs sponsorship?”
“Indeed,” Aunty Blessing says in a sing-song voice. “I’m going to reach out to a few of my contacts. Some of them like to invest in start-up businesses. I’m sure in exchange for a bit of brand promotion, they’ll be quite generous; at least, I hope. I’m also going to make a contribution.”
“Oh, really, Aunty?” I try to swerve my head and feel a tug as though I’m attached to a resistance band. “That’s so nice of you.”
“Of course I’ll chip in. Bend your head down a little. Not too much. That’s fine—oh, and how did the interview on Thursday go?”
“Okay, we’re going to have to stop for a moment so I can show you.”
Aunty Blessing stops sewing. “Uh-oh.”
I fetch my phone, which has fallen in between my thighs. I open the e-mail and hand it to her.
“？‘Dear Yinka,’？” she says. I turn around fully to see her reaction. “？‘Thank you for taking the time to meet with me yesterday to discuss your interest in working at Oscar Larsson. I was very impressed with your skill set,’ blah-blah-blah. ‘With this said’？”—she’s grinning now—“？‘we’re interested in discussing your experience further’—Come on, now!— ‘and we would like to invite you for a second interview on Monday fifteenth February at ten thirty a.m.’ Yess!”
Holding up her hand, she says, “That’s my niece.”
And I feel like such a kid as I give her a high-five.
“Have you told your mum yet?” She hands me my phone back. “She’ll be so relieved. And what did she say about your redundancy in the end?”
I scooch back to my original position, looking away from her. “Understandably, she was upset,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Well, this news should cheer her up then—”
“Well yes, but . . . I’d rather wait. I mean, no point getting her hopes up until I get the job, right?”
I grimace, hating myself for lying to my aunty. But honestly, is me not telling Mum that much of a big deal? I guess Aunty Blessing just wants to do the right thing—given how she’s a woman of the law and all. Thank God, Mum and Aunty Blessing are not the type of sisters who call each other every week.
I wait for Aunty Blessing to probe further, but to my relief, she tells me to do her another thread. I manage on the second attempt. Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this. She adjusts my head and gets back to sewing.
“Yinka, I need to talk to you about something.”
My chest tightens.
“The baby shower,” she says, and I feel my diaphragm relax. “Aunty Debbie’s prayer was completely unnecessary. Let’s just call a spade a spade—they don’t want you to end up like me.”
By this point, she has stopped sewing. I turn my body around. This seems like a face-to-face conversation. I’ve never really talked about my love life with Aunty Blessing. It’s always seemed . . . taboo. Maybe because it would force me to ask her that lingering question: Aunty Blessing, how does it feel not to have found love?
Something about her reaction tells me that she has read my mind.
“You’re wondering what went wrong for me, aren’t you?” she says. “How come, unlike my sisters, I didn’t settle down?”
“No!” I practically burst. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Then after a short pause, I add hesitantly, “But may I ask why?”
“Life,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you plan. I had dreams of getting married. Having kids. Settling down.” She smiles with her eyes. “But I also had dreams of becoming a top barrister. And as you can imagine it wasn’t a walk in the park. Work became my only love. By the time I reached your age, I think the longest relationship I held down was, what, three months?”
“Wow.” I chew my lip. “So . . . have you ever been in love before?”
Aunty Blessing swiftly looks past me. She shakes her head a little. “But I’m fine with that.” She rubs her thighs. “Look at where I am today. I have a lovely home, my dream profession—and who told you I’m too old to find love?”
She cocks her head and I laugh. Then I remember the online dating website.
“Yes, it would have been nice to have had a husband, and a kid or two,” she carries on. “But I knew deep down that I couldn’t have both. Back then, female barristers were few and far between, and on top of that, I was a Black woman. I had to work harder. I had to prove myself. At the end of the day, I’m happy. I know I don’t have it all, but what I do have I wouldn’t trade for the world. Besides, I very much enjoy being an aunt.”
I return her warm smile.
“You see, I’m responsible for my happiness.” She presses a hand to her chest. “I would have lived my life disappointed if I had not known that happiness is a choice. Do you know what would be even more disappointing?”
I shake my head, not sure where she’s going with this.
“Living a life that you feel pressured into.” She looks me square in the eyes. “Your mum messaged me about this man that Aunty Debbie introduced you to. It seems she has high hopes that he’ll be your husband in the near future.” She rolls her eyes when she says this. “Now, tell me. Do you feel you’re being steamrolled into this? Because I’m very happy to have a word with your mum. I’ll tell her to ease off a little.”
Her stricken expression makes me laugh. “No, no, Aunty. It’s fine. Funny enough, I actually like the guy, and I think he likes me too. He’s called Alex by the way. I’m meeting him after church tomorrow.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Okay, let me start from the beginning.” I swing my body back around so that she can resume fixing my hair. “Let me fill you in on how we met.”
As I give Aunty Blessing a quick update on Alex—the first amazing meeting, the disastrous outreach, all the Insta action since—the back of my head feels progressively heavier.