“This is better,” says Mum, visibly pleased. “This is much, much better. Now you are beautiful again.”
* * *
—
I arrive through the front door humming Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” song.
“Nana!” I yell, kicking off my heels and sprinting up the stairs. “You won’t belieeeve what happened today—Hey, what are you doing?”
Nana is closing the door to my bedroom. “Missy. You’ve got some explaining to do.” She crosses her arms.
“Hold up,” I ask, “why were you in my room when I was out?” She follows me as I walk into my bedroom to put my stuff away.
“I ran out of body cream,” she protests. “Come on, you know how Black skin gets after we’ve had a shower.”
I sigh. “Okay, if we’re going to live together, we need to set some boundaries.”
“Fine, but not until you explain this.” She points at my project plan. A few Post-it notes have already fallen onto the floor.
Ignoring her incredulous laugh, I crouch down and stick them back up.
“I knew you were up to something,” Nana says. “I was like, Yinka getting a weave? You’ve never even had braids.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I try to say breezily.
“Oh, and what’s this one?” She pushes her face closer. “？‘Wear more stylish clothes.’ ‘Borrow Nana’s African print clothes’！”
“I said, look into borrowing Nana’s African print clothes. So can I?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“I’m not getting involved in your bonkers plan. What happened to our mantra, ‘I am who I say I am?’ Yinka, you’re essentially changing yourself for a man and I’m not having any part in it.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t see it like that. We all put our best selves forward when we meet someone new. This is just that but a little more, you know, ramped up.”
Nana cocks her head as though to say, Naw, you don’t say.
“I’m putting myself out there,” I continue. “Sorry, isn’t this what you suggested?”
With a look of disbelief, she takes a step back.
“You and I know that is not what I meant. Wait. Has any of this got anything to do with Vanessa? Or the comment that Ola made? I hope you’re not fixed on trying to prove her wrong.”
“No!” I say. “This has nothing to do with that. Nothing at all.”
“Hmm.” Nana purses her lips. “If you say so.”
Sister time
WEDNESDAY
Nigerian food for beginners
What Nigerian food can I cook to impress a man
How to answer tough interview questions
“I have to admit,” I say, running my hand along a wall, “Mum did pick a great color.”
I’m at Kemi’s apartment, in the tiny box of a nursery room. There’s a lot of yellow.
“She did, didn’t she? And look, even that cot.” Kemi points to it by the window. “Mum put it together, you know? She did the drilling and everything. Literally left nothing for Uche to do.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s Mum for you. Always willing to roll up her sleeves and do it herself. I rate her for that. It couldn’t have been easy . . .”
“When Dad passed?” Kemi finishes.
I head toward the cot. “You probably wouldn’t remember, as you were very young, but Daddy was a bit of a handyman. Always doing stuff to the house. Putting up shelving units, tiles, pictures . . . Although he did do a shoddy job with the kitchen floorboards.”
“Urgh, those floorboards.” Kemi laughs. “Like, the floor isn’t supposed to move when you walk on it.”
“Daddy used to do all the driving, remember?” I carry on. “Aunty Blessing told me that Mum was terrified of learning how to drive after he died. Funny, ’cause if you see the way Mum is on the road now, you would not believe it.” I grab a furry rabbit from inside the cot and bury my chin into it. Sometimes I forget how awesome Mum is. I don’t know how I would have coped if I’d suddenly became a single mother of two. I know it must have been difficult, despite how well she hid her emotions back then. I wish she would open up about her experiences now that Kemi and I are older. It might bring us closer together.
For the next couple of minutes, Kemi and I exchange childhood memories: our obsession with the park roundabout, being chased by our neighbor’s pit bull and adopting a ladybird （until Mum killed it with her slipper）。
“Man, I’ve missed this,” I say. “Me. You. Hanging out. Reminiscing.”
Kemi tilts her head. “I know. I’ve missed this too.” Then after a short pause, she says, “We can still hang out, you know. Yes, I’m married and having a baby, but don’t be a stranger.”
I lower my gaze at the cot again. Kemi’s right. I don’t like how distant I’ve been. Maybe I should tell her about Alex. Open up more.
“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry,” she says, just as I look up. “That came out all wrong. I hope you didn’t think that I was being patronizing.”
“Not at all—”
“Honestly, Yinka, I didn’t think—the ‘I’m married and having a baby’ comment.”
I suppress a sigh. I wish Kemi would stop overthinking things; honestly, it would be less awkward between us.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Before the baby comes, we’ll spend more sister time together. I’ll organize something. But hey, I need to ask you a question.”
“Sure. What is it?” she says, and I notice how relieved she looks now I’ve changed the subject.
“It’s going to sound pretty random, but . . . I want to practice my Yoruba. Yes, I know, me of all people. So my question is, are there any Yoruba Nollywood films that you’d recommend?”
Twenty minutes later, Kemi and I are sitting against the wall with our legs outstretched. I now have a YouTube playlist titled “Nollywood” on my phone.
I scroll down the list. “Ah-bee-le-bu me,” I try.
Kemi looks over at my phone. “àgbélébù mí,” she says effortlessly. “I think it means my cross. Or my burden. I have to admit, I’m a bit rusty.”
I remember when Kemi was a teen, she would sit right by Mum’s feet while Mum sat on the sofa and binged on Nollywood movies. I guess it made sense given her passion for acting, but I just never saw the lure. Besides, I found Nollywood films way too long for my patience. They always ended on a cliffhanger too, and then there was always a part two, three and four. And most times, the film graphics were so unrealistic, they were laughable.
Kemi shrugs. “I’m not fluent, but I can get by. The ones that I used to watch with Mum were the proper villagey types. You know, the ones with witch doctors and masquerades.”
I shudder. “I don’t know how you weren’t scared.”
Kemi laughs. “The CGI was terrible—it made good comedy. How come all of a sudden you’re so interested in learning Yoruba anyway?”
In a Nigerian accent, I reply, “Ah, ah! Why not now?”