“Do you mind if I get your number?” he asked as I shrugged on my coat to leave.
“Who, me?” I pressed a hand to my chest. It was only then that I noticed how attractive he was: taper fade haircut, light stubble, cinnamon-brown skin.
Suddenly, I felt jittery and nervous.
Femi laughed and handed me his phone. I could barely type the numbers in—I couldn’t believe someone as gorgeous as him would take an interest in someone like me.
That same nervous-excited feeling stayed with me for our first few dates, constantly thinking, What’s the catch? Pinching myself in disbelief.
“So, in that case, B,” I say aloud, clicking on the button on the mouse. I think that around guys, I’m somewhat confident but a bit hesitant.
I carry on with the quiz, answering a few questions about myself—but why do they need to know my ethnicity and age, though?—and I hit the “Submit Answers” button with a loud exhale. Come on, Yinka. You’re not applying for a job. I cross my fingers anyway.
It doesn’t work.
“Five point five years!” I gape at my results. That means I’ll be, what, thirty-six, thirty-seven, by the time I get into another relationship? I know I’ve always said I’m happy to find love at the right time, but come on, five years is way too long.
Pushing my face toward the screen, I read the report explaining how this number was reached.
You got: Who needs a man?
According to your answers, you’re the type of person who takes a laid-back approach to dating and values long-term relationships. Since you’re not signed up onto any dating sites and tentative about joining, we can only assume that you’ve got other priorities in your life right now, and if you have to wait 5.5 years to meet that special someone, then “so be it,” is your mantra. We admire how independent you are. You don’t need a man to be happy.
I slam my laptop shut. The Internet isn’t helping. I drag my fingers through my kinky hair, raking it up and down.
What if Ola’s right? What if I am the problem?
Okay, maybe not the problem. But there might be some truth in the idea that I am stopping myself from finding love. And if I don’t want to suffer more public humiliation, then I need to find a man in time for Rachel’s wedding. I need a plan. A plan with clear aims and objectives, like the ones we produce at work.
I fetch my notebook and eventually find a pen at the bottom of my bag, before returning to bed. With a fresh page open, I jot down the title, “Operation Wedding Date: My plan to have a date for Rachel’s wedding.” I inhale. I already feel better.
The next thing I do is draw a table. At Godfrey, every time we begin a new project, we draw up a plan with columns for “objectives,” “tasks,” “deadline” and “key performance indicators.” Within a matter of minutes, I’ve finished.
OPERATION WEDDING DATE: MY PLAN TO HAVE A DATE FOR RACHEL’S WEDDING
OBJECTIVES
TASKS
DEADLINE
KPIs
1. Meet a guy in person
? Make an effort to speak to any single men at Rachel’s engagement party
? Next Friday
? I exchange numbers with a guy
2. Meet a guy virtually
? Sign up to online dating if I don’t meet anyone at Rachel’s engagement party
? End of Jan
? I connect with a guy I’ve met online
? We exchange numbers, speak on the phone and go on a date
I scan my plan, wondering whether I should add as another objective, “Take up Aunty Debbie’s offer to meet Alex”—and quickly decide against it. No. If I don’t like Alex, Aunty Debbie will forever remind me of how my singleness is my fault until the day I get engaged. Best to leave that option out. Besides, I’m sure there’s bound to be at least one decent-looking single guy at Rachel and Gavesh’s engagement party. If I could meet Femi at an event all those years ago, surely it isn’t too far-fetched to think that I can meet a guy next Friday?
I take one last look at my plan before closing my notebook. Operation Wedding Date. Bring it on.
Like a sister
SUNDAY
YINKA
Mum’s right. I’ll never find a huzband at St. Mary’s Church lol
NANA
Uh, tell me something I don’t know. You coming over? x
YINKA
Yep. See you soon. You better prepare your apology! x
“So . . . you didn’t quite make it to Kemi’s baby shower then?”
It’s an hour later, and I’m stepping through the trillions of sequins and loose bits of thread all over Nana’s carpet at her place in New Cross Gate.
“Actually, I was en route to Kemi’s when you texted me,” she says, tying her long locs into a high bun, which immediately sags to one side because of the weight. Her skinny legs are outstretched on the bed under a baggy dashiki. “But you know how I am with big crowds. I don’t do well with mixed energies. It just . . . I dunno. Disturbs my inner peace.”
I roll my eyes. “You thought you’d come when everyone had left then?” I plonk myself on her bed.
She laughs and shrugs. Nana has not changed one bit in the fifteen years that we’ve been best friends. We met during sixth form after she handed me a clipboard.
“It’s a petition to end hair discrimination against Black people,” she had said.
From that moment, I knew we would get on. And we got on so well that I immediately welcomed her into the fold. Or rather, “Destiny’s Child,” which is what my cousins Rachel, Ola and I called ourselves in secondary school, even though we couldn’t sing to save our lives. Of course, Ola claimed Beyoncé and Rachel claimed Kelly. In my thirteen-year-old mind I was convinced I should have been Kelly since I’m darker, even though none of us looked anything like the band. And though they were always saying, “We’re all best friends,” deep down in my heart I knew I wasn’t as close to them as they were to each other. And I also knew that Ola probably wouldn’t have been my friend at all if it wasn’t for Rachel.
“What do you mean?” Rachel cried when I confided in her about how I felt one day when Ola was off sick from school. “Yinka, don’t be stupid, you’re family. She loves you. If she has a problem with anyone, it’s her mum, not you.”
I couldn’t contest this. Aunty Debbie was hard on Ola growing up, constantly comparing us like two kitchen appliances she was deciding between. If it wasn’t our grades, then it was the length of our hair, and if it wasn’t our behavior in class, then it was who had the clearest skin. That wasn’t my fault, though. And I had my own problems with Mum always pushing me.
When I met Nana and we clicked, I thought, Finally, I have my own best friend. I clung to her like a sister. There’s something about Nana’s chilled energy and her bohemian swag, which is both refreshing and admirable. Despite our very distinct personalities, we looked like sisters, according to some. Same dark skin, slim frame and what I’ve coined the J-shaped bum.
I don’t know why my obsession with women’s bottoms started—I think maybe it’s because God didn’t endow me with a big one—but I’ve grown the habit of labeling women’s bum outlines with letters of the alphabet, a bit like how women’s body shapes are named after different fruits. I’ve concluded that both Nana and I have a J-shaped bum. There is no demarcation between where our back ends and bum starts, just a slope with the tiniest bit of fat residing at the base. Still, Nana wears anything she feels like—she has this African meets grunge style （Afropunk, I think it’s called?）—as for me, I hate any clothing that shows off my flat behind. I practically live in long cardigans.