“O-kaaay.” Silence fills the room, save for the blade that she’s sawing against the thread. “Talking of other things, a few of my contacts have come through. They’ve agreed to sponsor Nana’s fashion show. Isn’t that brilliant?”
“Yeah, Nana told me yesterday. Thanks again, Aunty.”
More silence.
Aunty Blessing clears her throat. “Any update on the job front?”
“Nope.” I emphasize the p. “No update since the wave of rejections I told you about. The recruitment agencies have gone quiet on me too.”
“Have you chased them up?”
“One has gone on holiday. But yes, I’ve chased the others. Sometimes even twice a week.”
“Hmm.” Aunty Blessing tilts my head. “This is so strange. I thought with Godfrey on your CV, you would have got a job by now. Have you asked the interviewers for feedback?”
I let out a laugh. “Oh, yes, I’ve asked. Apparently there just happens to always be someone with more experience than me. I’m always thiiis close but never get it.”
Aunty Blessing drops a weft of tattered weave onto my lap. It’s lost its sheen. I dispose of it into a plastic bag, trying hard not to remember how much I spent on it.
“Well, you know what they say,” she says, hacking at another thread.
“What, Black people have to work twice as hard?”
“No, well yes, but that’s not what I was going to say.” There’s a pause. “What I was trying to hint at is . . . maybe these rejections are happening for a reason. Are you sure you want to stick with the investment banking sector?”
“Aunty, I’m not interested in working for a charity.”
“I didn’t say it had to be a charity. Just, maybe, a different sector.” I feel the breath she puffs out on the back of my neck. “Now what does your mum think of all this?”
“What do you mean?” I’m praying that my wobbly voice doesn’t give me away.
“You not having a job yet,” she clarifies. “I imagine she’s quite worried.”
“Um . . . yeah,” I say, grimacing. That’s not exactly a lie—she’s always worried about me.
I run a finger along my hair, touching the cornrows free from the weave. It’s going to be so strange seeing my face with my short, kinky hair again.
“Yinka?”
Oh, no. Here it comes.
“I didn’t want to offer if you’d decided to change sector, but I recently met a man who works for a boutique investment bank. Maybe I can ask him to pull a few strings?”
“Oh, would you?” I’m so excited I whip my head around.
“Of course,” she says with a gentle smile. “I can’t remember what his role is or the name of the bank for that matter, but I do know he’s very senior. His name is Terry Matthews. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a word. In fact”—she rises to her feet—“I’ll text him now.”
I watch her bare feet patter over to the coffee table where her phone has been charging. She picks it up and types quickly. There’s a strange smile on her face—one usually reserved for when you text a friend a witty comment or a funny meme.
Then something hits me. It’s after nine. Quite late, in my opinion, to be texting someone you have a business relationship with. Unless you don’t have a business relationship with them.
“Aunty”—I scratch my itchy scalp, doing my best to quell a growing smile—“sorry, how did you say you know Terry?” and knowing that she hasn’t.
“Oh, at a networking event,” she says coolly. “We exchanged business cards and kept in touch.” She sets her phone back on the table, then without looking at me, returns to the sofa where she adjusts my head between her legs until she’s comfortable.
Mmhmm. I smile broadly as she resumes. Who is she trying to fool?
After Aunty Blessing finishes taking my weave out, I stand in front of her bamboo mirror, tugging at my wispy dead ends, which are entangled with dandruff and old hair grease.
“I think my hairline has receded,” I whimper. “Look.” I press down my unruly hair and shove my forehead under her nose.
“You’re just being paranoid.” She laughs and flaps me away.
My protest is curtailed by my vibrating phone. In unison, we look down at the sofa.
It’s Mum.
“I’ll call her back later,” I say at the same time that Aunty Blessing picks it up.
“Aunty—”
My mouth falls open as she answers it.
“Hello, Tolu. It’s Blessing—Oh, wow! Yinka! Kemi’s having the baby!”
This is your mess, not mine
By the time Aunty Blessing and I arrive at King’s College Hospital, Mum has already christened the baby seven times: at one point, he was Olúwa?é?gun, then later, Olàlàbí, then intermittently, Chinedu, an Igbo name that Uche and Kemi picked. The area surrounding Kemi’s bed is packed, crammed with adoring visiting aunties sitting on chairs, which I’m still not sure are technically allowed to be removed from the waiting area. Aunty Debbie is standing at the foot of the bed, taking photos on behalf of Big Mama, who is happily chomping through her second packet of plantain crisps, content with admiring the baby from afar. I’m pretty sure we are causing a major fire hazard.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Uche perched on the opposite side, I cradle an arm around my sister as she looks adoringly at their creation. The baby is so fair-skinned and tufts of silky, black hair sprout from his crown. I can’t believe Kemi’s a mum. My baby sister, a mum. The same girl that I used to pick up from school and help with her homework. Now she has an entire family. And as her older sister, I feel helpless that I can’t offer her any advice. Just like when she was getting married, I’m useless. I didn’t even get round to organizing our catch-up.
“You birthed a human being,” I say, trying not to wallow in self-pity.
“I know!” Kemi says. “Sis, you should have seen me. I was screaming as if I was possessed or something.”
“Please. Abeg. You’re not possessed.” Mum comes back in and swoons for the hundredth time. In an attempt to find better phone reception, she stepped out into the hallway to call family back home in Lagos and tell them the good news. Despite that, all we have heard for the last ten minutes is, “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” and “Speak louder. I can’t hear you.”
“Uche was amazing.” Kemi presses her clammy head against her husband’s, and at this, Mum pats Uche’s shoulders. “My son here was as calm as a swam.”
“Swan, Mum,” I correct her. Kemi laughs and Uche thanks his mother-in-law. It’s a shame that neither of his parents got their visas in time. A new thought comes to me. “Mum, how was Daddy when you went into labor?”
Mum doesn’t even bother to think about it. “I can’t remember. Oya, everybody.” She addresses the room. “Everybody, let us pray. We have to give thanks to God.”
After Mum finishes an epic prayer—No weapon formed against the baby shall prosper—the midwife kindly asks that all visitors step outside so that she can show Kemi how to breastfeed the baby.