I tip away the cloudy water and run the tap for a second rinse. “What I’m doing is no different from somebody bluffing their way to get a job—”
“And that is okay?” she asks as she places a number of seasoning jars on the counter.
Uh, yes. “Bad example. You know what I mean.”
The rice now washed, I place the pot on the stove and fill it with some hot water from the kettle. Meanwhile, Nana unwraps a cube of Maggi stock and crumbles it into the stew with the tips of her fingers.
“I know you’re thinking I’m being an uptight—thyme,” she says, beckoning, and I hand the dried herbs to her. “I just don’t want you to think that you’re not beautiful enough. Social media has got people twisted, thinking that they have to look a certain way—three bay leaves, please. Thanks. Yeah, so as I was saying, how do you know that this plan of yours isn’t a slippery slope to a more drastic change?”
“A more drastic change?” I let out a loud snort. Then I quickly take a few more photos to add to my Insta Story.
“It’s true!” Nana stirs in some curry powder. “That’s how these things happen—gradually. I mean, no one wakes up one day and suddenly decides to bleach their skin or get bum injections. Nah, those insecurities have been festering for a while.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now you’re getting ahead of yourself. Skin bleaching? Bum injections? I would never.”
“I’m not saying that you will. I’m saying—？What I’m saying is—urgh, it doesn’t matter. We’re going to leave the stew to simmer for a bit. Yinka, keep an eye on that rice. We want it parboiled, remember?”
“Sure. One sec.” I jab my fingers on my phone, thinking of a caption to add to my Insta Story. How about . . . Jollof in progress. Post.
I stuff my phone in my back pocket. When I look up, Nana is glaring at me.
“I hate that you’ve joined Instagram.”
I pull a face. “Well, I hate that your room is messy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, next thing. The spicy baked chicken. Can you wash the chicken, please?”
I grab the lemon juice from the fridge, and Nana hands me a tray of raw chicken. I’m pleased to see that they’re all drumsticks. That’s my girl.
I douse the chicken with a generous amount of lemon juice. “Did you really have plans for tomorrow? You know, for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation, and my mouth drops.
She laughs. “Don’t worry. I only planned to go to the gym.”
“The gym? On Valentine’s Day?”
Nana leans against the radiator and shrugs. “Yinka, I told you I’m happy on my own. I’m really not fussed about getting into a relationship.”
“Nana, when have you ever been fussed about being in a relationship? I mean, there was that one guy in college, but that lasted, what, a month? And that fling you had when you went to Barcelona for your twenty-first—”
Nana laughs and looks at her chipped black nails. “I’m aromantic.”
“Oh, please. You’re not a romantic.”
“No, aromantic,” she enunciates. “It’s an orientation.”
I blink at her.
“People like me don’t really experience romantic feelings. We’re not fussed about getting into relationships.”
“Oh, wow. I never knew that was a thing. I mean, I’ve heard of asexuality. But that’s lack of sexual attraction, right?”
Nana nods. “Don’t worry, I only found out about the term the other day. Someone posted about it on Twitter, and I was like, wait a minute, that is so me.”
“Have you told anyone yet?”
In her usual casual way, Nana says, “A few. My sister. My parents—”
“Your parents? What did they say?”
Nana shrugs. “？‘Well, that’s the way God made you. That explains things. As long as you’re happy.’？”
I stop slathering the chicken. My mum would have a heart attack. Then after recovering, she’d call a prayer meeting. “Wow, I don’t know what to say . . . Are you okay?”
Nana laughs. “Girl, bless you, I’m relieved. I always knew that there was something different about me. It sounds weird, but I really can’t wait to start telling people.”
“But what if you never experience love? Well, in a romantic sense.”
Nana shrugs. “You can’t long for what you don’t long for, right? And that’s the thing, Yinka, I don’t feel like I’m missing out. If anything, I feel . . . free. I don’t have to feel sad when I see my friends settling down. I don’t get jealous when I see couples out and about on Valentine’s Day. And it’s not as though my parents are pressuring me to get married.” She laughs. “They gave up on that dream a long time ago. So, yes, tomorrow I’m spending Valentine’s Day at the gym and I couldn’t be happier.”
“Well, good for you,” I say, putting the tray of chicken to one side. Maybe that explains why Nana is so against my plan; she can’t relate to my feelings. I squirt two pumps of handwash before scrubbing my hands.
“Anyway, Rachel’s bridal shower. Have you seen Ola’s WhatsApp messages? She’s made a to-do list.”
“Oh, did she now?” I grab the napkin that is draped over the oven handle. “There’s so many messages, I can’t keep up.”
Nana laughs. “Yeah. Don’t tell Rachel. But I actually put her group on mute.”
I gasp. “Nana. If she finds out, she’ll kill you!”
Some men don’t know a good woman even when she’s right in front of them
SUNDAY
Samsung Memo cancel
Valentine’s Day!
Squats: 50 （Ouch!）
What does it mean when a guy wants to spend Valentine’s Day with you?
“Get long weave. Check. Look stylish. Check, check.” I scan the Post-it notes on my bedroom wall, then look over at the purple ankara jumpsuit that I’ll be wearing to church later on. I pinched it out of Nana’s wardrobe the night she stayed at her sister’s. God forgive me.
“Learn how to make Nigerian food. Hell, yeah!” With a triumphant smile, I draw a massive tick and a smiley face.
Nana and I spent close to three hours in the kitchen yesterday. We made jollof rice, gizzard with tomato stew, beef suya and spicy baked chicken. Although Nana did the bulk of the cooking while I passed her ingredients, I still think I’m allowed to take some credit. Not to mention, I chopped and fried the plantain and prepared the hard-boiled eggs for the Nigerian-style salad. They’re all in the fridge now, covered with foil, ready to be heated up after church.
“Learn how to understand and speak Yoruba . . .” I wiggle my lips, then draw a question mark. I’ve been busy preparing for my interview and haven’t consumed as many Nollywood films as I would have liked. Okay, okay, they were too long. Anyway, I’ve slipped a few Yoruba words into my WhatsApp messages to Alex, and he seems impressed.
Satisfied with the progress I’ve made, I move on to the next part of my plan. I scribble on a fresh pad of Post-its: “Questions to ask Alex.” Now that I’ve won his attention, I need to find out where his head is at. Yes, he’s showing signs that he likes me, but I need to hear him say so. But I can’t just ask him outright. I need to be subtle. Clever. Discreet.